


An Unquenchable Flame

by SappyGemstone



Series: Magic In The Blood [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Original Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 108,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3621303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SappyGemstone/pseuds/SappyGemstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sinead is no novice to pain - brought up in the Brecilian Forest as an apostate, witness to the horrors of the Blight and downfall of the Kirkwall Circle, she fights off the blackness that threatens to swallow her. Now serving as an archivist for the Inquisition, she hopes to finally find peace. And one young man wishes to help her, a spirit named Cole for whom no pain is hidden.</p><p>OC story spanning the decade between the Blight and the Inquisition, with a chaste OCxCole pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warning

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this story after learning that there were people who wished they could romance Cole. Cole! Sweet, innocent, terribly efficient at killing Cole. I admit, I recoiled from the idea.
> 
> Oh, ho, but did that get the wheels spinning! What kind of person would it take to nudge a (human path) Cole toward romantic love? She or he would have to be a pretty interesting sort, mentally. Certainly someone with a similar veneer of innocence, someone who would relish Cole's mind-reading, someone for whom helping is equally important. Then a quote from the Inquisitor came to me, one that occurs when she speaks to Dorian: "Are there rebel archivists?"
> 
> Yes, there are, Inquisitor. And I'm going to tell the story of one.
> 
> UPDATE AND SPOILER ALERT: I wrote this story before the Trespasser DLC, and I feel a bit vindicated about Cole's ability to find a girlfriend if he goes human. I knew Patrick Weekes wouldn't let me down! Let's just say that in the universe of the official game, Sinead never made it to Skyhold, for any of a number of reasons presented in her life. Meanwhile, in the universe of this fanfic, Sinead is safe and sound (relatively) and making waves as much as any head archivist makes waves ;)

"Are you calm?"

Sinead took a breath and nodded, steadying herself against a wind-worn statue of blessed Andraste. Unlike the statue she passed every day on the forest path to the stream when she was sent to fetch water, it was bright green and shimmered with its own light. She closed her eyes. The shifting landscape and color contrasts always shocked her system when she entered the Fade – like being thrown from a spinning swing. She took another breath, and willed her mind to let go of all worry and doubt and fear, and the landscape slowly righted itself, becoming less disorienting.

Eluard smiled. "You're getting faster at the transition. Have you been practicing?"

"The lucid dreaming." Sinead nodded and pushed off of the statue. "I'm not very good, though. Usually when I realize I'm asleep, I want to wake up right away. I don't think I'm a dreamer like you, master Eluard."

"Well, it is a rare gift. But no matter. Come."

He took her hand and led her through a small glade of golden grass that moved as if rustled by wind, though the air was still. Giant conifers ringed the glade, blotting out the swirling, ever-changing sky. They towered over her like the trees of her forest, yet somehow they were  _more_. She wondered if they were a dream of trees, or a reflection of the trees' dreams. A gentle hum filled the air, a melody that seemed slowed down until each note sang for hours.

"What are the rules of the Fade, child?" Eluard asked as he stopped at the center of the glade and pulled her to sitting beside him.

Sinead stifled her wonder as her mind snapped to attention. "The Fade reflects us. Be not a foul reflection. The Fade is dreams. Let not the nightmares rule you. Beware of demons. Let not they conquer your resolve. Listen to the spirits, for they have stories to tell."

"Splendid." Eluard beamed at her. "You have mastered your composer while in the Fade these last few visits. Look around you, child. Is it not different from your first time?"

Sinead smiled at the grove, the grass, the trees. "It's beautiful. There's no darkness. Nothing is twisting out of sorts."

"Because you don't  _expect_  it to twist out of sorts. You are letting the Fade be as it is, rather than what you fear it may be." Eluard tapped his temple, and then his chest. "Strength of mind. Strength of heart. What is the master rule?"

"There is no bit of magic that you should fear, so long as you know the rules and act without malice," she chanted. "Is the Fade like this everywhere? Or is it only like this in the Brecilian Forest?"

Eluard chuckled. "A good question! What do you think?"

"If it reflects reality, then it looks different." She ran her hand over the silky grass. "I wonder what the sea looks like in the Fade. Can we go there someday?"

"Goodness! So soon after finally knowing the Fade as it should be, and now you're planning trips to the sea! One step at a time, child." He placed a finger to his lips.

A hush fell over the glade as the two mages, master and apprentice, fell silent. The hum went up a note, and as it did the trees shook like birds fluffing up as they preen, as if excited by the change. It seemed that time stood still, which may have been true – the Fade was never very good at keeping regular time. Then Sinead felt a change ripple over her, like a stone dropped in a stagnant pool.

A female form emerged from the forest, translucent silver with long, glittering hair draped over her like a cloak. She drifted above the grass, every now and then taking a step as if remembering that walking was the proper way to get around. She circled the glade, and where she passed, thin tendrils grew up from the ground and blossomed into dark blue irises. She didn't acknowledge the mages at first, caught up in her own meditation. Sinead glanced at Eluard, opening her mouth to speak, but he shook his head and winked.

Finally the spirit stopped in front of them, hovering a few feet away. She smiled. "You have finally brought her to me, Eluard," she said, her voice resonating in many harmonies.

"I had to be sure she was ready, my friend." Eluard placed a hand on Sinead's shoulder. "Sinead, this is Peace, my oldest and very best spirit friend."

"Well met, young one." Peace reached out her hand, and Sinead took it. She was surprised to find it soft and warm. "I have felt you through the veil. Healing the little squeaking creatures when they find trouble."

"The nugs." A blush rose up Sinead's neck and she dropped Peace's hand. "I'm sorry, Master Eluard, I know I'm not supposed to without you unless it's an emergency –"

Eluard cut her off with a laugh. "Peace, you've found her out!"

"I only meant to thank her." Peace's coloring dulled to a light gray. "Their pain is troublesome to me when they take too long to die. It echoes in my glade until they are gone."

"Worry not. Only a small reprimand is necessary. Isn't that right, Sinead?"

Sinead nodded, trying to calm her embarrassment.

Peace's coloring returned to a bright silver. "Then it is good that you brought her to me. I hoped to meet her before I take my leave, and waited perhaps longer than I should to depart. Now I am free to go."

"Go?" Eluard frowned and stood. "What do you mean go?"

"The dark song is growing louder." Peace gave him a bemused look. "Surely you hear it? I must go before it overtakes the forest, else it will be quite painful."

"I cannot hear all that you hear, remember." Eluard glanced at Sinead and lowered his voice. "Tell me of this dark song."

"Oh, must I?" Peace ran her thin fingers through her hair. "It's a troublesome thing. It stings the thoughts."

Eluard hesitated. "I do not wish to bring you pain, my friend. Be still."

Peace smiled and placed a hand on his cheek. "Then I shall go without worry. Be safe, Eluard. Do not let the dark song swallow you." She drifted over to Sinead and pulled her up to her feet, then kissed her forehead. "Young one, I give you my blessing. Find peace wherever you may be."

There was a ripple, and Peace was gone. The brilliant colors of the glade dimmed into the washed out hues of a watercolor.

Eluard was silent for a moment. "That. Was not how I expected this meeting to go," he said finally.

Sinead plucked an iris and fingered its slowly fading petals. "What did she mean by 'the dark song'?"

"A good question."

Eluard took her hand. There was a flash of bright light. The sounds of the twilight forest filled Sinead's ears, the insects singing a symphony on the wind. She could feel the dewy grass beneath her, soaking her blouse and seeping through her trousers. She opened her eyes and yawned, pulling small twigs from her black braids. "The light is nearly gone. Mother will be worried." She smiled at Eluard. "Your friend was lovely. Are there other spirits like that in the Fade?"

Eluard did not answer. He stared at his wooden staff, turning it in his hands.

"Master Eluard? Are you alright?"

"Yes." Eluard smiled, stood and brushed the dirt from his brown robes. "Come now, child. Your mother is sure to split me in two if we don't hurry you back home."

* * *

Sinead's mother Glidda greeted apprentice and master at the door of her hut with a sound telling off before ushering them in for a dinner of smashed roots and rabbit. As they ate, the hearthfire casting long shadows on the threesome, Sinead talked excitedly about the Fade.

"Every time I go, it's more and more beautiful," she said, scooping a second helping of roots onto Eluard's plate. "It's better than the best dream, mama. All color and humming and peace."

"That's good, love." Glidda frowned. "I suppose. Quite different from what the Chantry taught us, isn't it? Where are the demons?"

"Oh, mama. That's all you ever ask about." Sinead rolled her eyes.

"And she's right to ask, quite right. But worry not, madam, she was perfectly safe with me." Eluard patted Glidda's hand. "This meal is excellent, by the way."

"Well. So long as you are  _safe_." Glidda rose and began clearing the dishes. Sinead rose with her. "No, sit my girl and rest. The bigger lessons always drain you. Don't want you falling asleep in the suds."

Eluard waved a hand toward the loft where Sinead and her mother slept. "Go and get the word game, and we can play a round."

Sinead nodded and scurried up the ladder.

"Glidda, how quickly can you prepare to run?" Eluard said placidly, leaning back in his chair.

Glidda looked up from the dishes sharply. "What do you mean, old man?"

"I've run before, you know. With naught but a loaf of bread, my staff, and the clothes on my back. I know I can be away from this place quickly if need be. But you." He ran a hand over the rough tabletop. "You did not so much run as you slowly disappeared into the woods once Sinead began to show her abilities. Do you know what you'd need to flee?"

Glidda paled and sat down hard. "The Templars know of us," she whispered.

"Not at all," Eluard said stoutly. "Nothing like that. But I've had some news that I must look into. The type of news where one might have to run as fast as one can, if it is dire enough."

Glidda glanced up at the loft, and lowered her voice. "I know enough to pack food and stockings. I can prepare a couple of packs tonight. Perhaps I can go into the village tomorrow, and –"

"The village?" Sinead scrambled quickly down the ladder. "May I come?"

Glidda's lips thinned. "We've talked about this."

"But I haven't seen it in forever, and I'm fourteen now this past Bloomingtide, and I'm not a little child anymore! I wouldn't burn anyone or…or make things float, or anything!"

Eluard patted the table. "Set up the board, Sinead, and leave your mother be."

"But-"

"Now, please." Eluard said sternly.

Sinead sighed deeply, the sigh of a young adolescent conceding to adults who cannot begin to understand her pain. She opened the checkered game board and pulled a handful of wooden letter tiles from a leather bag. Glidda flashed Eluard a grateful look and turned to the dishes as master and apprentice began building words on the board.

As always, Eluard led the game, but Sinead did not mind. She reveled in the words Eluard used that she did not know, writing them down with their definition in a small, leather-bound diary with a piece of lead and repeating them to herself as the game progressed. Before long, the board began to swim in front of her and the letters jumbled up in her head. She yawned and propped her head on her arm.

"I believe that is my sign to leave," Eluard said, standing and taking up his staff. "Be well, Sinead. Glidda."

Sinead nodded and slowly scooped the wooden letter tiles back into their bag.

Glidda rubbed her back. "Go on up to bed, my girl. Let me do that."

Sinead did not argue. She pulled herself up the ladder, limbs heavy with exhaustion as the day's casting finally made itself known. She fell into her bedroll, barely conscious enough to kick off her boots before sleep took her. As she drifted off, she could hear her mother below, singing her favorite lullaby.

_[Golden Tales](https://soundcloud.com/amber-englebert/golden-tales)[  
](http://vocaroo.com/i/s1kfWVGTAxbg)_

_Sleep my love, lay down my love_

_And rest your weary head._

_The day was long but it has gone_

_And now it's time to bed._

_Golden tales await for you_

_To visit in the Fade._

_Close your heavy eyes my dear_

_And go where dreams are made_

_Soft my heart, be still my dear_

_Think not of somber things_

_Calm your mind and be soothed by_

_The peace that slumber brings_

_I will hold your hand my love_

_As your breathing slows_

_So journey on and safe you'll be_

_Wherever you may go._


	2. Flight

"Wake up!"

Sinead was pulled from sleep by her mother's voice. She blinked blearily, the blue tinge of the pre-dawn light outlining the shape of her mother's head.

"Are you going to the village?" she asked, muddled. Glidda's hair was tightly wound in a high bun, two hairpins carved from ironbark in the shape of lilies stabbed through the center to keep everything in place. It was a style she only attempted when going to the village, given the importance of the pins – Glidda wasn't sure how old they were, only that they had been passed from grandmother to grandchild for a very long time.

"No. Put on your boots. We're leaving."

"I don't understand –"

Glidda grabbed her by the chin. "Listen, my girl, we have to run, and run fast. Ask no questions, and be quick."

She let Sinead go and slid down the latter. Sinead scrambled after her, shoving her feet into her boots and grabbing the word game on her way down. Glidda threw her a pack, and then shouldered a bow and quiver.

"Drop the game," she said. "We haven't the room."

"I won't." Ignoring her mother's disgusted tsk, Sinead crammed the game into the pack and threaded her arms through the straps. "Is it Templars?"

"Maker's breath, if only. Come."

Eluard was waiting for them outside. Sinead gawked at him. Rather than his simple brown robes, the older man was clothed in leather trousers, a thin cotton shirt and a tight leather vest, his staff strapped to his back along with a pack.

"It's time to run." His voice was clipped. "Keep up as best you can. Go only where I go." He took off due north, running at a loping gate, his long legs covering ground quickly.

"You heard him," Glidda snapped. "RUN girl!"

Sinead did as she was bid, more out of confusion and curiosity than any feeling of urgency. Her mother followed close behind. They ran on a deer path that cut a thin line through the brush. At first it was easy, as the pace Eluard set was not strenuous. But after about ten minutes, her legs began to burn, not used to such endurance running. She glanced back at her mother, but Glidda's face of stone told her there would be no complaints. She continued on as the burn turned into a terrible ache, each step like fire. She felt as if she was trying to push her body through a thick paste. She could not feel the passage of time through the pain. The forest lightened as the sun rose through the trees. Sweat gathered at her temples and tickled down her neck, and her tongue grew swollen with the need for water.

Suddenly Eluard slowed. "Keep walking," he said. "Else your legs will cramp."

Sinead gratefully slowed her pace. Her feet felt like stones she was dragging at the end of her legs. Her mother handed her a water skin and she drank deeply.

"Why?" she gasped. "What's going on?"

"Blight," Eluard said, handing her a piece of bread and a strip of dried meat. "The dark song Peace mentioned yesterday. It's a Blight, child."

Sinead looked from Eluard to Glidda. Her heart quailed. "But…you mean like the old stories?"

"Yes." Eluard took a bite of his bread. "The king stood against an oncoming tide of darkspawn with the Grey Wardens at Ostagar. He was killed, and the Wardens wiped out. The horde is coming north, and it won't be long until they overtake us. That is as much as I could discover before deciding fleeing should take precedence over gathering information."

Sinead shook. It was like being told the monsters in her nightmares were real. "What about the village? Will everyone die? Are we going to die?"

"Worry not for the villagers, my girl. If they heard any this news they would have fled days ago." Her mother hugged her close as they walked. "And the horde hasn't reached us yet."

Sinead laid her head on her mother's shoulder. "What are we going to do?"

"There's a Dalish camp about a day from here," Eluard said, pointing off into the forest. "They have the means to travel quickly and safely through the woods."

"The Dalish don't like humans."

"I know. But the keeper of this particular camp owes me a very big favor," he said grimly. He dug around in his pack and pulled out six glass vials filled with a golden liquid. He handed two each to Glidda and Sinead. "This potion will keep up your energy and keep the pain from affecting you for a while. Take one now, and when it starts to wear off we'll slow for lunch. We run again."

The potion did as Eluard said, and the pain of running became a nagging sensation that bit at her heels. But a weight descended on her shoulders, a sense that she would have to pay for keeping her stamina artificially inflated. She kept pace with Eluard, her mother pushing her forward whenever she began to slow.

They followed the path deeper into the woods, weaving around ancient, twisting oaks and elms, and jumping over their exposed roots. Crumbling ruins covered in swinging mosses peaked through the foliage, and the birdsong became mute. Sinead's skin prickled and she felt a pulling sensation from all directions.

"Master Eluard, why does the air feel heavy?" she huffed.

"The veil is thin here," Eluard answered measuredly, between breaths. "Centuries of death, and old lingering enchantments. Again, do not stray from the path I follow."

They ran until the ache returned to her legs, slowed to take in a meal of apples, cheese and bread, then took another potion and continued on. Tears streamed down Sinead's cheeks and her body screamed at her to stop moving. Whispered voices echoed around her, and she wasn't sure if it was her mind hallucinating from the agony of the constant movement or spirits calling out through the veil. Finally, as the shadows of the trees grew long, she stumbled to a stop, holding her head. She crouched and rocked back and forth.

"I can't anymore," she said, her body trembling. "I can't."

Her mother crouched next to her and rubbed her back. "A little farther," she soothed. "Don't give up yet."

"We can rest a moment. It's the veil, Glidda." Eluard pushed the water skin into Sinead's hands. "It tugs at the mind. Makes everything feel more."

Sinead took a few unsteady sips, shaking her head to clear the voices. "Why are they rustling? Everything is rustling."

Eluard squinted at her. He cocked his head, listening. His eyes grew wide and he stood, staring off to the south. Twisted shapes flickered in the distance.

"Up. Up!" He pulled Sinead to her feet. "That's not the spirits! We must run on, NOW."

An arrow landed at Sinead's feet with a soft thwick. She gasped and stumbled into a run. A guttural squealing roar sounded behind her. She ignored the pull of the veil, the whispering, the waiting ache of her limbs, and sprinted in fear. Even pushing as hard as she could, following Eluard's fleet body as close as possible, her mother keeping pace beside her, the pounding feet of the darkspawn grew closer.

"It's no use. Come on!" Eluard cried, veering to the right. He jumped atop a craggy outcrop and pulled Sinead after him. Glidda followed suit, unshouldering her bow and nocking an arrow on the string. Eluard unleashed his staff.

"What are we doing?" Sinead asked in a panic.

"We will not survive by running," Glidda said firmly. She drew the bowstring to her ear and loosed the arrow. In the distance, there was a strangled scream. Quickly she nocked another arrow.

"Sinead, you must help." Eluard's words were swift. He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut his hand, then handed it to her. "Remember. Without malice." He threw a barrier around them all.

Sinead's hands shook as she took the dagger. "Without malice." She made a shallow cut along her palm and balled her hand into a fist.

The darkspawn neared, dipping in and out of vision as they ringed the trees. Glidda's arrows flew, taking some in the throat or chest or arm. Eluard took a deep breath and the hairs on Sinead's arms rose. Lightening flashed from his staff, turning one of the malformed creatures into smoking meat. The lighting shot off its victim and slammed into another and another, creating a chain of destruction through the monsters. Still more poured out of the trees, closing in on the outcrop.

"Sinead!" Eluard snapped as he sent another bolt toward their attackers

Sinead gasped and reached within her, feeling her mana grow into a burning force within her chest. Then she focused on the blood dripping from her fingers. The power tapped from the blood swirled and joined with her mana, giving it an unnatural strength. She threw out her arms. Three, five, seven of the darkspawn burst into a bright, hot, blue flame so quickly that they had no time to scream before they fell, charred husks. She sighed as the power left her, a joyful release. She built up again, burning a swath through the horde.

Darkspawn corpses littered the forest floor, but still they came, circling the outcrop. Sweat was pouring down Glidda's brow as she shot one arrow after another. "I've run out!" she cried, throwing the bow aside and pulling a set of daggers from her belt.

"Keep them back, child!" Eluard increased the barrier, and then sent a wave of power out, knocking the darkspawn off their feet.

Sinead barely heard him. She let loose a ring of fire around the outcrop, burning anything that dared move close. Two of the creatures climbed atop their burning comrades and launched themselves at the top of the outcrop. Glidda spun, catching one in the chest, removed her dagger and slammed it into the back of the second. She kicked his corpse away as more darkspawn followed suit, landing on the outcrop. Eluard froze them where they landed, then launched the bodies at the horde, where they shattered, blinding their comrades.

The horde was growing smaller – twenty of the creatures still ringed the outcrop, hissing at the three and avoiding Eluard and Sinead's assaults. A number of the darkspawn had run off, tiring of such aggressive prey. Another creature landed on the outcrop, ducking around Glidda's attack. It grabbed her arm and face, shoved its fingers into her mouth and bit deep into her shoulder. She screamed.

"Mama!"

Sinead snarled. The darkspawn burned a hot white and floated away in ash. Glidda fell to her knees, holding her wound. Sinead's head spun and her eyes blurred. She staggered forward, dropping beside her mother, completely drained of mana and unable to draw from her blood lest she suck herself dry.

Eluard sent out another wave of power to knock the remaining darkspawn off their feet. Three lay low as the attack occurred, then jumped up, climbing the outcrop. Three arrows flew from the trees, felling them.

"About time," Eluard grumbled as three elves dropped from the overhanging branches of a towering oak and landed beside him. He let out another bolt of electricity that ricocheted around the darkspawn as they rose to their feed and clambered up the outcrop. The silent elves picked off the creatures that came close. Finally, the last of the horde was vanquished, an arrow protruding from its eye. The elves shouldered their bows.

"This is not the only throng that comes north," one of them said, nodding to Eluard. "Come, lethallin."

"A moment." Eluard stooped next to Glidda and examined her shoulder. The bite was black and deep. He furrowed his brows and bowed his head.

Glidda shuddered. "I know that look," she said shakily. "I have given that look."

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sinead grasped her mother's hand.

"She's been tainted," Eluard said quietly. "There's nothing I can do."

Silence fell over the group.

"Well. Do what must be done then," Glidda said gruffly, picking up her dagger and holding it out to Eluard.

Sinead gasped and knocked it from her hand. "What are you doing?"

"My girl, do you know what blight sickness looks like?" her mother snapped. "Have you seen a ghoul? Shambling, disgusting creatures going on about some sick song, hungering for human flesh. I will not leave this world like that!" She pulled her hairpins free, her dark locks tumbling loose, and forced them into Sinead's hands, then pulled Sinead close and hugged her hard. "Go, my heart. I've kept you safe for as long as I could. You best grow up and live well." She pushed Sinead away and nodded at Eluard. "Do it."

"No!"

One of the elves grabbed Sinead around the waist and turned her around. Sinead struggled in his arms, but he was strong for so lithe a man. There was a gasp of breath behind her, a small gurgle, and then silence. The elf let her go, and she turned and crawled to her mother, now still and pale, blood pooling around a wound in the chest. She wept hot tears, screaming wordlessly. Fury burned inside her. She turned to Eluard, snarling like a mad creature, pulling power from her mother's blood.

A sharp slap rang her ears. Her cheek burned, and she touched it, dazed. She had never been hit by an adult, let alone Eluard.

"Never. In. Malice." Each word fell like a splash of cold water, quenching her anger. She hung her head in shame. Eluard gathered her up and held her close as she sobbed.


	3. Dalish

Sinead clutched her mother's hairpins close to her chest and huddled near the fire, shoulders stooped. She avoided the critical glances of the Dalish that shared her fire as they ate and chatted amongst themselves. Some eyed her warily, others with outright hostility. A bowl of thick stew lay untouched by her feet.

Keeper Yemet sat next to her, picking up the bowl and setting it in her lap.

"I'm not hungry," she said mechanically.

"It doesn't matter, asha. Put the food in your mouth and chew," he said sternly. "You may have lost your mother, but you have no time to mourn. The next few days will be strenuous for all of us, and I will not allow one weak human girl to slow us down."

Sinead stared at the bowl, stomach tight with grief.

She barely registered the last few leagues to the Dalish camp, running behind Eluard and the elven scouts in a fugue. Keeper Yemet greeted them on the outskirts of the camp, grasping Eluard's forearm and giving her master a small smile.

"You sent word that there would be two," Yemet said, frowning at Sinead.

"Her mother was killed," Eluard said shortly.

Yemet nodded, unsurprised. "We have bedrolls ready for you both. Rest, my friend."

Eluard shook his head. "You know I cannot. This isn't my only stop today."

This statement roused Sinead from her fog. "What do you mean, Master Eluard?"

He stiffened and turned to her, his face a mask of sadness.

"Maker, you're leaving me, aren't you?" He stepped toward her, but she backed away, heart sinking. "You're leaving me here alone!"

He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Listen to me, child. You and your mother are not the only people I've charged myself with protecting. I've already failed once today. I cannot fail again."

"But what will I do? What –" Panic choked the rest of Sinead's words.

"Keeper Yemet's clan will take you through the Passage to Gwaren. There, you will get on the first boat available heading as far away from Ferelden as its sails will take it." He dug in a pouch on his belt and handed her a number of sovereigns. The coins were heavy in her hand – more money than she had ever seen in her life. "Hide that on your person. Even a full ship may take you if you show them this coin. Heed this." he leaned in close to her, crouching a bit so that his face filled her vision. "Do not use magic until you reach the ship's destination. And when you arrive, go immediately to the nearest Circle."

"A Circle? But –"

"Girl, they are gilded cages, but they will feed you and clothe you," Eluard said firmly. "That's more than I can do for you for now. Whatever you do, once you are in the confines of a Circle, do not use blood magic. Never, not even in an emergency. Is that clear?"

Sinead nodded, barely processing this flood of information. "Please don't leave me," she said, her voice small.

Eluard sighed deeply. "When this is all over, if I still live, I will find you, child. I promise you, I will not let you fade away in a circle." He hugged her tight. "You must stay safe. For me. For your mother."

He let her go, nodded at Yemet, then downed a golden potion and took off running into the twilight forest, never looking back. Silent tears streamed down Sinead's cheeks as she watched him disappear into the trees.

And now she sat by the fire, a stranger among the indifferent and hostile Dalish, protected by her Master's old, unknown alliance. For the first time, she wondered at just who Eluard was, and wondered why she never thought to ask him where he went when he wasn't teaching her. A flash of memory at her mother's skill with her daggers, unseen until the fight with the darkspawn, brought on the same question about Glidda. But thoughts of her mother pained her, and she shoved them away.

Yemet still stared at her, chin squared. She filled her spoon and took a bite of the stew. It was like sand in her mouth, but her body reacted to the sustenance, her stomach unclenching enough to welcome the meal. Yemet nodded and moved away, leaving her to chew silently on unanswered questions.

* * *

The Dalish moved swiftly through the forest, far faster than Sinead thought a clan of fifty or so members and a number of aravels could move through such a heavily wooded area. The aravels seemed to float over exposed roots and squeeze unnaturally between trees. Everyone's gate was a hurried walk – even the children managed to keep pace, running to the front of the train of people and wagons, then lagging until the last wagon passed them, then running to the front again, making a game of it. Scouts were constantly coming and going as the clan traveled, and the train adjusted as messages were called through the trees, words Sinead could not understand but assumed were warnings of danger ahead.

Every day with the clan passed much the same as the last – Sinead woke as a horn blew to mark the beginning of the day. She twisted her braids around her head, holding them in place with her mother's hairpins, and quickly rolled her bedroll and stored it in a waiting aravel. Breakfast was a fast meal of unleavened bread and cheese, and then the walk would begin.

And every day she was given a task to complete while she walked. Yemet demanded it of her. "Every pair of hands must contribute to the clan," he said on the first day, handing her a pack of roots and a knife and leading her to a couple of elves who were peeling the roots as they walked and tossing them in a barrel tied to the side of an aravel, prepping them for the evening meal. She clumsily followed their lead, her hands nowhere near as deft as theirs, nor her pace as fast, trying to peel and walk at the same time. Even worse was when it came time to cube the roots – she kept having to stop, making her cut, then running to catch up to the barrels.

The day she was given a pack of stockings to mend left her with hands filled with pinpricks.

Still, she didn't mind the work. It gave her something to focus on, something to help her forget her grief, or why their pace was so swift, or what she was to do when the time came to leave the clan. It was easier to let go and simply do. And it let her ignore her loneliness – only the Keeper spoke to her, and even when he did, it was in short, clipped commands.

They reached the Brecilian passage within two days, and travel became easier, swifter. There were signs of fleeing refugees in the passage, hobbling people passed without word, goods that were brought along in flight but ultimately found too cumbersome and left on the side of the road. A few of the Dalish scouts were given the task to root through these goods and salvage anything of value that wouldn't add too much to the travel load. It made Sinead's heart sink to see them bring back sturdy clothes and cook pots, knives and ceramic cups. She wondered if that was to be the fate of her little cabin – all the goods she and her mother made a home with looted and shared among the scavengers. At night she would take the word game from her pack and place the hairpins within its wooden box, grateful for these two small momentos from the life she left behind.

One afternoon, a call came from above the rocky face of the passage, and the clan stopped its progress. Scouts huddled around the lead aravel, speaking in hushed tones with the Keeper and a few other elves Sinead had marked as leaders of the clan. She paid them little heed, trying to carefully unknot and wind a large ball of spare bow strings that had become tangled during travel and was tossed to her by an indifferent hunter that morning. But she took notice when one of the scouts turned and stared at her as the others spoke.

Keeper Yemet walked over to her and took the tangled ball from her. "I need you for a task only you can do," he said, throwing the ball to a lazing child and leading her to the front of the train. "Ahead there are a number of humans stopped in the road. Walk to them."

"Alone?"

"There will be scouts watching." He pointed at the rocks lining the passage, then took her hairpins from her hair, letting her matted braid fall down her back. "Look small and weak. Helpless," he said, putting the pins in her pack. "Ask for food and water. Will you do this?"

She glanced at the stony-faced scouts. She would do anything that would make these people look at her with less resentment. She nodded. Yemet allowed her a small smile. "Go, then."

She felt self-conscious, walking away with the eyes of the camp at her back, and was relieved when she turned a corner and they disappeared from view. She walked about a mile, winding through the passage, when a group of people appeared around another corner. It was a larger group than the clan had passed before – around ten people or so, wearing a combination of leather and chainmail. They lined the passage, up in the rocks and on the side of the road, though they didn't seem to be attending the road as she neared. She could hear them chatting and laughing with each other.

Her heart began to pound. Bandits, she thought. I'm bait. She tried to stifle her anger. She agreed to this task, said she would look small and weak. The scouts were watching.

"Oi, look at this lil' one!" one of the men called out from the rocks. He slid down the face of the passage wall and hopped lightly to the road, blocking her path. "What troubles are you running from, lass?"

She held on to the straps of her pack and ducked her head. "The darkspawn." Her voice was rough from lack of speech. "My mama and I ran. They killed her. Please, sir, do you have any food? I'm so hungry."

"Oi, you think we should give food to the young lady?" the man barked. The others laughed.

Another of the men sidled up next to his comrade and leered at her. "She ain't so young, Arrison. Look at her – pretty as a portrait on a tyrn's wall."

"Leave off, Wallace." More of the men were coming, moving to surround her. "She ain't a day older than my sis."

"Yer sis has great tits, Sid," Wallace replied. He took Sinead roughly by the arm. "Looks like this 'un's hasn't grown in yet." Sid pushed Wallace off Sinead as the other men laughed and sneered.

"I'll have non o' that, Wallace. Not for a mite like this 'un." Arrison pulled a dagger from his belt and leveled it at Sinead. "Just give us the pack, girly, and we'll leave you be."

Sinead trembled, pulling at her mana. Where were the scouts? "It's everything I have."

"Then either give us everything you have, or die," Arrison said coolly, putting the dagger to her neck. "Your choice."

An arrow struck his throat. He gasped, blood flowing from his mouth, and fell back. Two more arrows flew, striking down Sid and another man.

"Dalish!" the men leapt into action, knives and swords drawn, charging up the wall toward two scouts. Two more were picked off before they reached the elves. The elves turned and ran and the bandits gave chase – until a hail of arrows from the other side of the passage rained upon them, snuffing out their lives. Corpses rolled down the passage wall, stopped by the rocks.

Sinead could not stop staring at the unseeing green eyes of the man Arrison. He died clawing at the arrow through his neck, and his hands propped up his head. She ran to the side of the road and vomited up her midday meal.

"You did well, asha." One of the scouts approached her as she wiped her lips, offering her a water skin. "We did not want to attack until we were sure they were bandits."

Her anger flared, but her voice barely rose above a whisper. "Why did you use me?"

"You are human, they were human. An elf on the road may be attacked simply for being an elf. To attack a young human girl, however, means bandits. Or worse."

She took the skin and drank deeply.

"It wasn't like the darkspawn," she said shakily, handing him the skin. "The darkspawn were inhuman. Monsters. These were just men."

"Monsters come in all types," the scout said with a shrug. "You needn't be cursed with blight to become monstrous. Go on back to the clan. Let them know the way is clear." He patted her on the shoulder and joined his companions in pilfering the dead mens' bodies.

Sinead did as she was bid, dragging her feet back to the camp. That night she slept fitfully, green, unblinking eyes haunting her dreams.

* * *

Another day of travel passed uneventfully before the clan found its way to the outskirts of Gwaren. The scouts called a halt, and Keeper Yemet fetched Sinead and brought her to the front of the train. He handed her a small bundle of food, and took her hand between his.

"This is where we part, asha," he said, not unkindly. "Your Master Eluard spoke highly of you when he visited us, but I admit I had my doubts about how a young shemlen would take to our way of life and means of travel. But you did admirably."

"Thank you. For helping me." She tried to say more, about her mother, or Eluard, or the bandits, but for some reason her tongue refused to move. It was curious – the words were all there, lined up in her head, but she couldn't get them out.

"Go on then," Yemet said, not knowing her struggle. "Follow this road into the town. The scouts will follow you until you pass through the gates. I wish you a safe journey."

He let go of her hand and pushed her gently in the direction of the town. She took a breath and began walking, joining a small throng of travelers making their way down into the town. Most looked to be like her, former forest dwellers running from the encroaching darkspawn, travel weary and in mourning for what they lost. She walked through the town gates, past two grim Templars, ducking her head to avoid being noticed. She wondered if they could sense her, and tried to tamp down her mana, ball it up within. But they gave her not even a glance as she passed.

Gwaren was bigger than anywhere she had ever been, with its stone buildings and cobbled streets, its crush of people, and its mixed stench of food, smoke, bodies, and human filth. She felt small and alone – far more alone than she had with the Dalish. For the first time in her life there was no one charged with her survival but herself. She kept her head down and moved through the crowd, heading east where she knew the sea and the ships should be. But going due east in a large town was not like traveling through the forest. The streets wound around themselves, becoming narrower and less populated and thick with a dense sludge that she hopped around to avoid. Ragged people lay in doorframes, watching blearily as she passed. Eventually the street simply ended in a large stone wall. She stopped to regain her bearings – she had crossed a larger street some yards back. Perhaps if she followed it, asked for directions…

She turned, and found that she was blocked in by two ragged young men.

"We've been followin' you, love," one of them said, the leader of this duo. He closed in on her, came so close that she could smell the sickly sweet decay of his breath. "I like the look of those hairpins," he said, backing her against the wall. "Almost as pretty as you."

"You think she'd be willing to give us a kiss, eh, Jass?" The other man, stocky and covered in black fur, stroked her arm. She slapped him away, and he laughed.

"Maybe a kiss, maybe more," Jass said. "Maybe if you do what we like, we won't take everything off you. What do you say love?" He pushed up against her.

"Don't touch me!" Sinead struggled in his grip, panicking. There would be no Eluard, no mother, no elven scouts to help her. Just two grimy lads and their hands, laughing and groping and moving their lips on her neck.

Her thoughts cleared. She pulled deep from her mana and grabbed the stocky man's hand from around her waist, freezing it solid. She slammed it into the wall behind her, and it shattered. The man screamed, holding his frostbitten stump.

"Mage!" Jass blanched and stumbled back. "A mage! It's a mage!"

Sinead bolted, fleeing from their cries. She wound through alleys, splashing through the muck and jumping over the sullen people. She stumbled out of an alley and onto a main thoroughfare filled with people. Stalls lined the street.

"Excuse me," she panted at one kiosk owner who hawked skewered meats. "Where are the ships?"

"Follow this road til you get to the fountain in the square. Take a left. Now if you aren't buying anythin', be off with you."

She nodded and ran, people passing in a blur, and burst free of the buildings to find a long stretch of docks and moored ships. She gasped at the sight, and at the sea beyond, shimmering and never ending. A wave of sea air hit her, stinging salt against her cheeks. She walked down to the docks, unsure of which ship to choose.

She soon realized that she had little choice in the matter. There were small crowds gathered around each ship, people crying out to be taken on, accusing the ships' crews of leaving them to the mercy of the darkspawn.

"We're full up!" one ship hand roared at the crowd mingled around his vessel. "Can't even take a small dog, so leave off!"

Another ship's crew was dodging stones thrown by its angry crowd as it prepped for launch. One hit a man square in the temple, and he fell to the deck. The captain drew his sword and brandished it at the crowd.

"If you don't clear the docks and leave my men be, I swear I'll give them the order to kill every one of you!" The crowd jeered at his threats, but cleared hastily when the captain called "all hands on deck! Prepare for battle!" and the crew jumped into action, armed and ready for a fight.

"We're taking children and mothers only, damn you!" Further down the docks a crewman pushed a man off the gangplank of his ship. "No one else will board this ship, do you hear?"

Sinead heard. She pulled her hairpins out and stashed them in her bag, then pushed her way through the crowd of angry people. She was battered in the crush, but she broke free and climbed the gangplank, trying to look as small as possible.

"Can I please board?" She said to the crewman, not meeting his eye. "Mama said to get to a boat as fast as possible."

The crewman gave her a once-over, his face softening a bit. She glanced down at her clothes, noticing for the first time how grimy they were – stained from travel and blood magic. She must have been caked in dirt. "I'd say you can, lass. You can pay the first mate when you're aboard. Meals come with travel, so no worries about that, eh?"

"Thank you." She bobbed her head and passed him, then turned and asked, "Where is this ship going?"

"Free Marshes, lass," the crewman said shortly. "Kirkwall."


	4. Circle

She was tired of the smell of the sea. Of its endlessness. Of the constant movement of the ship, unforgiving of her unsteady legs and trembling stomach. Of the stone-like biscuits and stale water that made up every meal. Of the smell of bodies and waste and vomit that curdled the air of the hold. Of the wailing babes and hacking coughs of the ill. She felt light from hunger and heavy from lack of movement. The day that the watchman called out "port ho!" she did not quite believe that her sea journey was near its end. She joined the other passengers on deck, watching the land grow nearer, the cliffs of Kirkwall towering over the horizon.

There were gasps from the passengers as they passed under the massive swinging chains that spanned the channel, from bluff to weeping colossuses. Sinead was in awe. The ruins in the Brecilian forest were remnants of what people could create, crumbling reminders of another time. She would sometimes imagine what a sunken tower would have been like when whole and new, or the decaying bricks of an old bath. These statues, covered in centuries of grime, still stood, enormous and complete and a testament to the crafter, as horrible as they were.

The ship docked, one of dozens in the large port, and the gangway was lowered. There was a rush to disembark, people pressing past her. She instinctively checked her hair to insure that her pins were in place, and then joined the flow that poured her onto the docks and toward the city gates.

The gates were blocked. Soldiers posted at the barricaded entrance stared stonily at the influx of people from the ships.

"We are taking no more refugees," one of them announced, pushing one of the braver crowd members back from the door. "There are camps a few miles outside the cities. Go there if you wish, but you will not stay here!"

"We traveled for weeks!" A woman screamed. "My child hasn't had a dry bed since the blight took our home!"

"That's not our problem." The soldier crossed his arms and ignored her barrage of insults.

Sinead pushed through the crowd and stood before the soldier. When she began her journey, she feared what she had to do once she reached Kirkwall. Now exhaustion, seasickness, and hunger removed any feeling but the desire for a steady bed and a good meal. She looked up at the soldier with a blank face.

"I'm a mage," she said quietly.

The soldier looked down and frowned. "We aren't taking in children either, lass. There are chantry sisters in the refugee camp. Go pester them."

"I'm a  _mage_ ," she said, raising her voice.

"Yes, yes, we've heard that one, too." The soldier waved her away. "Do you know how many people the Circle sent back to us after giving up a free meal and a night's sleep? Run off, girl!"

Sinead laughed a little in disbelief. She held out her hand and willed a flame to light in her palm. The soldier leaned back, shocked. There were gasps in the crowd.

"Maker, that girl was on the ship with us!" she heard someone mutter.

Sinead closed her hand, extinguishing the flame. "Can I go to the Circle now, please?"

The soldier pulled his sword. "Murphy, go fetch the Templars! You stay right there, missy. No tricks from you."

Sinead smiled in relief. Maybe the Circle would have fresh bread.

* * *

"Name?"

"Sinead."

"Surname?"

"I don't know."

A bored Templar made a note in a thick book. Sinead sat at a desk in a sparely decorated office, the daylight coming through the arrow slit window enhanced with a few large candles. Another Templar sifted through her pack, unrolling her stockings and examining what was left of the coin Eluard had given her.

"You were an apostate in Ferelden?"

"Yes."

"But you were taught?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

Sinead tried to answer, but Eluard's name stuck in her throat. A wave of panic overtook her. She shoved his name away and breathed deeply.

"By whom?" The Templar repeated firmly.

"My Master," she said with a shrug, confused. Why couldn't she say his name?

The second Templar reached over and took her pins from her hair. Sinead tried to grab them, but the Templar slapped her hand away, stinging her.

"All possessions will be returned to you when they've been deemed safe," the bored Templar intoned. This was clearly a common occurrence. Sinead rubbed her hand where red marks appeared.

"Have you ever been tempted by a demon?"

"No."

"Have you ever practiced blood magic?"

"No." Sinead hoped that she hadn't answered too quickly. Or too slowly. She continued to rub her hand to hide the trembling.

The Templar sighed and closed the book. "It's good that you finally found your way to a Circle, girl," he said. "For all you know, your master was a blood mage. Or an abomination. Your life may have been in danger, and the lives of everyone around you, and you would have never known it. In a way, the Blight has saved your life."

Sinead's face burned.  _It killed my mother_ , she tried to shout, but again the words were trapped in her throat by a cascade of panic. Why could she not say it? Scream it? It troubled her, scared her. Was it a spell that she did not know?

The Templar left his desk and opened his door. "Ivy, can you prep the new apprentice, please? Make sure she meets with the First Enchanter and finds a place in the dormitories." He took her hand and ushered her out. "Welcome to the Kirkwall Circle, Sinead. I look forward to ensuring your safety."

The woman Ivy led her down a long, curving corridor and up a flight of stairs. She did not speak, and her walk was smooth and flowing.

"In here," Ivy said, opening a door. There were a number of copper tubs in the room, one filled with steaming, sudsy water that smelled of lavender. Ivy closed the door behind them and began removing Sinead's ruined blouse.

Sinead jumped back. "What are you doing?"

Ivy looked at her blankly. "I must prepare you for the First Enchanter," she said, her voice a smooth monotone. "You must bathe."

Sinead examined the woman, noticing for the first time the sunburst Chantry mark on the woman's forehead. She backed up a step. "What's wrong with you?"

"Ah, I see now. You have never met a tranquil." Ivy motioned at the tub. "There is nothing to fear. I care not for the naked form. I merely wish to do my duty and see you readied for the First Enchanter. Please undress." She turned around.

Sinead hesitated a mere moment before stripping the clothes from her body and sinking into the tub. She could feel layers of filth dissolving from her skin. A deep sigh was cut off by a bucket of water thrown over her head. Ivy attacked her hair, neatly unbraiding it and massaging it until her scalp hurt.

"I can do that," she said, trying to pull away.

Ivy's strong hands refused to budge. "It is my duty."

Ivy finished with her head and scoured her down, scrubbing every crevice until she was red from the brush and from embarrassment. The tranquil woman backed away and picked up a towel, holding it out to Sinead. Sinead quickly stood and wrapped the towel around her body.

"Will it be like this every time?" She said, unable to quell her blush as she stepped out of the tub.

"Some of the mages find it relaxing," Ivy said, leading her to a chair where she picked out her tangles with a wooden comb.

"What is a tranquil?" Sinead asked, wincing at Ivy's efficient and painful detangling.

"I was considered too dangerous for magic, so I was cut off from the Fade," Ivy replied with that same monotonous tone. "Before, I remember anger and tempting voices in my head. Now I cannot dream. I cannot do magic. I cannot feel. It is simpler this way."

Sinead swallowed her horror. For the first time that day, she felt true fear.  _This_  is what Eluard hated about the Circle, not just the fact that they were "gilded cages". Why didn't he tell her of the tranquil? Was he afraid she would refuse to find a Circle if they were separated?

Ivy finished with her hair, weaving it into a thick braid, and handed her a set of stiff blue robes. Sinead dressed quickly, lacing up the soft leather boots, and Ivy led her again through the curving hallways and up another flight of stairs. Ivy knocked on a door, nodded, and left her in the hallway.

"Enter."

Sinead peeked around the door. An elven man in gold robes looked up from his desk.

"Ah. The new apprentice. I am First Enchanter Orsino." He placed his quill in its inkwell and motioned at the chair across from him. "I just received notice of your arrival. News has already spread, I'm sure. Can't keep much secret in a Circle." He chuckled as Sinead sat. "So you were trained when you were an apostate. That's good news, though I'm sure the Templars don't see it that way. You wouldn't believe how many untrained mages your age end up burning to death or twisting into abominations, simply from lack of understanding of their powers." He pulled a ledger from out of a drawer and raised his quill. "The instructors will give you a battering of tests to see what holes are in your training, but it would be helpful to know of any skills you excelled at, if any."

"Healing," Sinead said slowly, unsure of what to share and what to hide. Aside from the blood magic, of course. "Fire."

"Creation and elemental, yes. Not uncommon."

"I was getting better at walking the Fade before." She stopped. Again she could say nothing of the Blight. She had to figure out what was stopping her words. It was both frustrating and worrying.

"You walked the Fade?" Orsino frowned deeply. He made a long note in the ledger. "That is certainly…unconventional. But you seem unaffected. For now." He rose from his seat. "Come."

Again she was led through the halls, again up a flight of stairs.  _It may be a cage_ , Sinead thought,  _But it is a BIG cage_. The First Enchanter opened the door to a long room filled with bunks. A number of girls ranging in age from 12 to 17 looked up from where they sat on the floor or their beds.

"Girls, this is the new apprentice," Orsino said, pushing Sinead gently through the door. "I expect you to treat her kindly as she gets used to the rules around here. Sinead, you will have the rest of today free to explore the tower, but tomorrow your lessons begin." He patted her shoulder and closed the door.

The girls rushed her. She backed close to the door, unused to so many people with such hungry expressions aimed at her.

"Your name is Sinead? That sounds elfy, but you aren't elfy. Weird."

"I heard all Fereldens have dogs. Did you have a dog?"

"Were you running from the Blight? Did you see darkspawn?"

"Oh, that's a good question, Tess. What do darkspawn look like?"

The girls stared at her expectantly. "Awful," she choked out, unable to say more.

"So you have seen darkspawn!" One of the girls squealed. "You're right out of a story!"

"Oh wow, did you have to  _fight_? With  _magic_?"

"Yes."

The girls sighed with jealousy. "Can you imagine using magic so freely?" one of them said. "Just boom! Lightening! Take that, evil darkspawn!"

"Fire everywhere! Sucking them into the void!"

"I wish I could have been there. So much better than this boring tower."

Sinead's patience frayed and snapped. "You're an idiot," she snarled, pushing the girl away. "You're all idiots!"

The girls looked at her in shock. She tried to say more, to explain, but the words refused to come. She growled in frustration, which caused the girls to back away fearfully.

"You think she may be an abomination?" one of them whispered.

Sinead fled the room. She ran up another flight of stairs and ducked into an open door. Shelf after shelf of books greeted her – they lined the walls, circled in on themselves, towered up to meet the lofty ceiling. She ran into the stacks, losing herself in the maze of books, reached a dead end, then huddled up against a shelf and wept. The last few weeks of her life tumbled out of her in sobs. Finally she had no more tears left in her, and she wiped her face with her sleeve.

"Are you feeling a little better lass?"

Sinead looked up. An older man stood a little ways from her, leaning against his white staff. She looked away.

"I'm master archivist Norwin. And you are Sinead, I believe. I heard a new apprentice had arrived. Only a new apprentice would hide in my library – the other apprentices tend to avoid it. Reminds them of lessons, you know." He stepped closer and offered her a handkerchief. She took it and wiped her eyes. "Sinead. Lovely name. Elven in origin. Rough translation is The Maker is gracious. Or the gods are gracious, I suppose, given the religious inclinations of the elves." He laughed hoarsely.

Sinead handed him back his handkerchief. "How do you know all that?"

"I'm an archivist! It's my job to know everything," he said stoutly. He began searching the shelves, running his fingers over the spines of the books. "I also know a thing or two about weepy apprentices. I've seen a few in my time. Been one myself once. D'you know what I used to do when I was your age and everything seemed impossible? Ah!" He pulled a book from the shelf and held it out to her. "I'd get lost in lore. The world is a messy place. Lore? Well, lore is also messy, but with enough study one begins to find answers. Connections. It's quite comforting. You know how to read?"

"Yes." Sinead took the book.

"Then I highly recommend that title! It has everything – adventure, love, betrayal. You will be enthralled, I promise you. Well!" Norwin looked her over and nodded. "Back to my duties. Be well, young lady."

Sinead watched him leave, then studied the cover of the book. It was old, and the leather was cracked around the spine. A wolf was branded on the front, abstract and blocky. She stared at it a moment, then opened the book and began to read.


	5. Harrowing

There was no roof. That was the first thing she noticed – instead of the normal vaulted ceilings of the Circle tower, the stone walls stretched into a swirling, starry sky. Her footsteps echoed as she walked the halls of this mirror tower, and she wondered if they did so because she thought they  _should_. It had been years since she was last lucid in the Fade, and Eluard's lessons had dimmed in her memory some. But she remembered the essentials – strong mind, strong heart, see the Fade as it is rather than what you fear it to be.

The hallway opened into a large library, books floating in the air where they would be if shelved. The books wound off into the distance, to a horizon that faded to black. Sinead approached the books, running her hands over a row. They shivered and jumped from her touch, launching into the air and taking flight. She laughed as their rustling pages disappeared into the stacks.

"Excuse me, but unless you're planning on reading any of those, I'd thank you not to touch them."

Sinead turned. A translucent green man was frowning at her, arms crossed. He floated a few inches from the floor, and his robes did not end with feet – rather, it was as if he didn't bother to create feet for himself, preferring to manifest three fourths of a form and considering it enough.

"I'm sorry," Sinead said, bowing slightly. "I didn't mean to disturb your books."

"It's no matter." The spirit snapped his fingers, and the books reappeared where they once were. "I believe I know you. You're one of the industrious ones who live in my library. I've seen you with many books open before you, hard at work. Good, purposeful work. I've nudged you when you begin to tire."

_A spirit of Purpose_? "Pleased to officially meet you." Again Sinead bowed. "You saved me more than once when studying for exams if you truly helped me. Thank you so much."

"Yes, well." The spirit was clearly pleased with the praise. "What brings you on this side of the veil?"

"I'm looking for a demon." Sinead tried to hide her annoyance, but gave up, realizing that the spirit would know her thoughts anyway. "Apparently the only way to prove that I won't allow myself to be possessed is to seek out a demon yearning to possess me."

"Ah, that old test. Yes, I've seen your peers here before. Always wondered what madness they were about. Seems like a waste of time, if you ask me. But if you really want to talk to one of those brutes, you'd do well to turn back." The spirit nodded toward the door. "I keep them from coming in the library. They bother the books."

"Thank you again." Sinead took her leave, frustrated. She had wondered for years what the Harrowing would involve, but purposely seeking out a demon was not what she expected. She agreed with the Purpose spirit – from her lessons with Eluard, it felt like madness.

_Maybe I should try to fly, like the books,_  she thought as she padded down the hallway.  _Or make things appear from nothing. That tends to get their attention, right?_

The hallway opened again, this time on a grandly overgrown garden. Ivy ran up stone columns, and flowers erupted from the ground in multitudes of hues. There was a figure wandering through the greenery as if lost – a lean, older man with a wooden staff. Sinead slowed her pace, cocking her head as she approached the man. He turned, and his confusion melted away into delight.

Sinead stopped, frozen in place, flowers brushing her shins. "Master Eluard?"

"Maker, is that really you Sinead?" Eluard rushed her, taking her face between her hands. "I have been searching for you for…I've forgotten how long. Look at you! Is this what you look like outside the veil?"

"I – I suppose."

"You have grown up. Such a lovely young woman," he said, voice breaking. Shock numbed her. She didn't move as he hugged her tight. "How long has it been?"

Her anger flared. She pushed him off. "Four years. You left me at the Kirkwall Gallows for four years. Do you know what it's like here? They teach people to fear spirits. To fear their magic." She prodded him in the chest. "They make people  _tranquil_. You never told me of the tranquil!"

"Child, I didn't want you to fear the people who fear mages." Eluard's face fell. "Four years. I've been wandering the Fade for four years."

Her anger was immediately extinguished. "You're trapped in the Fade?"

"I believe so." He sighed and sat, leaning his head against his staff. "During the Blight, I set off to help where I could. The Ferelden Circle Tower…well, it was in a crisis. They were overrun with abominations. I tried to free the possessed in the Fade, but I had little success. And when I tried to return, I found that I was trapped."

Her breath caught in her throat. "Do you think you were killed?"

"It's very likely. Until now, I've been walking wherever the path is clear, hoping to find an answer." He smiled up at her. "Not long ago there was a tremor I thought I recognized. It led me here. To you."

They stared at each other, master and apprentice, and it was as if no time had passed. She kneeled next to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "I've missed you."

He placed a hand on her head. "And I you."

She stood, rubbing tears from her cheeks. "Stay here. I have a task to finish, but as soon as I'm done I'll speak to the First Enchanter. We'll figure something out, I promise!"

"No." Eluard rose to his feet. "If you leave, I fear I'll be lost again. And without a body to return to, there's nothing I can do."

"Then I will find out if you're truly dead," she said firmly. "I can write to the Circle Tower –"

Eluard grasped her shoulder. "Child, I have been trapped here for four years. Any longer in the Fade and I will lose myself. I must leave as quickly as possible."

She was bemused for a moment. "You said yourself, without a body –"

"But we have a body." His grip tightened. "If I come with you, I will be free, and we can seek the truth of my fate together."

Sinead's heart fell. "Ah." She pulled his hand from her shoulder. "This was cruel of you."

"Child, I –"

"Stop." She backed away a few steps unhurriedly. "I assume you are Desire?"

Eluard's face twisted with a long grin. "Very good.  _Very_  good. Almost thought I had you."

"Yes." She kept her face blank. "You were quite believable."

"It's a shame." The demon sighed. "We could have had a lot of fun, you and me. Oh, well." It knocked her chin up and winked. "Good luck, Sinead. That Circle doesn't know what it has in you."

A bright light filled the garden, blinding her. She blinked, and when her vision cleared she was back in the chapel the Templars had bundled her off to without warning. One of them leaned over her, sword raised.

"Don't worry, I'm me," she said quietly, standing unsteadily.

"So you are." The Templar sheathed his sword. The First Enchanter stepped around him, smiling and taking Sinead's hand.

"Congratulations, Sinead. You are now a full mage."

* * *

Sinead yawned over the volume as she flipped through its pages. The Harrowing had been long, though Orsino assured her that there had been past successful Harrowings that lasted longer. The dawn was breaking by the time she left the chapel. She ached for sleep. Still, she wanted to avoid the dormitory. Every apprentice would be at her heels asking what it was like, though she was sworn to silence. And the tranquil would be moving her meager things to her new room. The library seemed a better place to seek peace, though she struggled to keep her eyes open.

A young man with shaggy brown hair sat down next to her, nudging her. "Congratulations. You're one of us now." He placed a small cake atop her tome.

"Thank you, Rein." She smiled at the under archivist, a blush rising to her cheeks. "Did you steal this from the kitchens?"

Rein grinned. "It isn't stealing if the cook offers them to you."

"She only offers because you flirt with her shamelessly." She poked his arm. "What are you offering her in return?"

Rein straightened his back, feigning offence. "Only my charm. What's that you're reading?"

"Oh." Sinead picked up the cake, brushing a few crumbs away. "It's a language primer for old Tevinter. I've read through a number of translated texts, but I just know I'll understand more if I have a chance to read it in the original language."

He groaned. "Please tell me you aren't still considering being an  _archivist_." He placed a hand on her forehead. "Are you sure a demon didn't take you in the Fade? You feel a little warm."

She blushed again at his touch, her stomach flipping. He did have such soft hands. "What else am I to do with myself? I need to specialize in something, else I become listless and the Templars accuse me of attracting demons."

"Only those without talent watch the archives. You could be in the clinic! Enchanter Robin would be sure to take you. Or perhaps research. Please." He took her hands between his. "For my sake, and for the sake of all those who can barely rub two sparks together, find another path?"

"I'm afraid you're stuck with me." She patted his cheek. "Fear not, I don't bite."

He leaned in, nose touching hers. "Don't you? That's too bad."

Sinead held her breath. The under archivist was a terrible flirt, but she could not help her attraction. His smile, his hands, his easy friendliness. He was right – the cook probably snuck him cakes for his charm alone.

Archivist Norwin hurrumphed, breaking the moment. "Rein, I don't believe you've finished the catalog I asked of you yesterday."

Rein pulled away and stood quickly. "Yes, of course. Sinead." He nodded at her with twinkling eyes and hurried off.

Norwin raised his large brows at Sinead. "I'd ask you not to distract my staff, girl, but knowing him I'd say he was distracting  _you_." He smiled, picking up her book. "Ancient Tevinter, eh? Most interesting. I look forward to your dissertation, young woman."

"It's still only preliminary, Master Archivist." All thoughts of Rein left her, replaced with the thin threads connecting her theories that she had found in her research. "I still have to find a source for the original tale of the Black City. I thought –"

"Enough." Norwin closed the book. "You look as if you haven't slept, and you have yet to take a bite of that ill-gotten cake. I demand that you go to your quarters. The research will be here tomorrow."

"I don't even know where my new quarters are." Sinead took a bite of the cake. "I'd rather stay here if you'll let me."

"Stubborn girl. Ivy is here to lead you to your quarters, and you still have said nothing about my staff."

"What about your staff?"

"That it clearly isn't mine!"

He was right – it wasn't his normal white staff set with an orb, but a simple wooden staff with a branching top. Sinead nearly choked on the cake.

"Is it mine, then?"

"Of course it is! You think I'd use such a low level thing at my age? Go on then."

Sinead leapt from her chair to grab it up. Her mana immediately reacted to its touch, flowing into it and focusing. "It's wonderful," she breathed.

"Yes, one's first staff always is." He waved her away. "Now go on up to bed. I don't want to see you until well past breakfast tomorrow."

She bowed and ran off to meet Ivy, holding her staff fast in her hand.

* * *

_Fire flickering, smell of burning flesh, blood, left behind, shattered ice, green eyes._

Sinead sat up in her cot, her breath shuddering. The room was dark and silent, save for the soft snore of her new roommate. She sighed and pressed her forehead into her blanket. It had been a while since she had the dreams. She cursed the Desire demon with every blaspheme she knew.

She lit a small flame in her hand, just enough to see around her cot, and opened the top drawer of her tiny night stand, pulling from it the word game. She opened the box and stroked the lacquered wood of the folded board.

"You said you'd find me, old man."

She reached into the leather bag, then hesitated and shook her head, closing the box and sliding it back into the drawer. She gave it one last look before closing the drawer and extinguishing the flame.


	6. Qunari

_Dear Sinead,_

_It is good to hear from a fellow Fereldan, especially one who had direct contact with the Blight. Those were hard times, and few who didn't face the darkspawn know how terrible they truly are outside the children's tales._

_The Circle Tower did indeed face the troubles you allude to in your letter - abominations ran amok thanks to a wicked malificar seeking an end to his own imprisonment. I had assumed that the rumors had traveled far by now about those times, but I have heard of Kirkwall's particularly heavy enforcement of its mages. Perhaps the Templars chose to stifle this information in an effort to prevent imitators._

_However, I regret to say that I have never heard of the mage Eluard, or of his involvement with attempting to free the possessed mages during that time. If he was at Circle Tower, he made sure he was not noticed. I have sent a query on to other Circles to see if this Eluard has been sighted elsewhere, but I am sorry I could not be of more help to you in finding your old master._

_Good luck to you, and may the Maker preserve you,_

_First Enchanter Irving_

Sinead crumpled up the note and set it aflame. She watched it burn to ash, disappointment tugging her heart. It was too much to hope for, that the Desire demon had touched on a truth about Eluard through its interaction with her. But of course the thing only pulled the memories she had of him to use against her. How could it know where Eluard was, or if he was even alive?

Shaking out the fire, she went back to reshelving the books in the cart she had been given by Norwin that morning. She tried to shake thoughts of that last day she saw Eluard out of her head, but the more she avoided thinking of that day the more it refused to leave her mind. Her panic grew, making her breath come in short bursts. She leaned against the shelf, willing her breathing to slow as the world spun.

"Don't think of druffalos," she whispered. "Don't think of druffalos, don't think of druffalos."

Soon, nothing but druffalos filled her mind - big, nickering, grazing druffalos. Her breathing eased. SHe felt a hand on her elbow.

"Are you okay? You look like you're about to faint." She turned and faced Rein's concerned look.

"I'm fine," she said lightly, picking up a book. "I forgot to eat my midday meal, that's all. Fabridicio's fascinating theories of Elvhen creation stories kept me busy."

Rein pulled the book from her hand and set it back on the cart. "You've been studying too hard," he said, grinning. "I've seen the candle drippings deep in the stacks. A mage hiding in the library stacks at night rather than safely tucked in bed? For shame. The knight-commander wouldn't be pleased."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." She sniffed and brushed a bit of hair from her eyes that had fallen from her braided crown. "I've only been a full mage for a month. I wouldn't take such liberties."

"I'm sure." Rein's eyes danced. "Well, would you be willing to take liberties now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come with me." He took her hand and pulled her from the cart. "I have something to show you."

"Master Norwin wants these shelved - "

"And they will be. Come."

She smiled and took up her staff, following him out the far entrance of the library. Together they walked the halls of the Gallows, looking nonchalant as they passed other mages and Templars making their rounds. Suddenly Rein pulled her through a door and up a servant's stairway. They crept up the stairs, around the flights until they reached the door that led to the roof.

Sinead placed a hand on the rough wooden door. Immediately she was disconnected from her mana. She pulled away as if stung. "It must be enchanted."

"It is. Luckily there are more ways than magic to open a door." Rein pulled two metal tools from his sleeve and winked at her as he went towork on the door's lock.

"Where did you learn a think like that, under archivist Rein?" she said, surprised and amused.

"We come from all walks of life before the Templars find us, don't we? There." The lock clicked and he pushed the door open. "Would you like to see the outside world, archivist-apprentice Sinead?"

She didn't hesitate, pushing through the door and stepping out into the late afternoon sunlight. The roof was flat and rimmed with a short brick wall. The view of Kirkwall awed her - the cliffs, the great colossi, the jumbled buildings of Lowtown, the rising towers of the Viscount's keep. She had not seen such a complete vision of the city since the first day she arrived, having to content herself with glimpses through narrow windows. The sea air was powerful enough to tousle her braid though it was pinned tight to her head.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, leaning over the wall. 

"I'm glad you think so. It took me months of trading to get those tools. We can go here any time you like," he said, taking her hand. "Any time you want to escape that musty library."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Why would you do anything so kind for me?"

He laughed and pulled her close, curling his arms around her waist. "How can you even ask that? I've been in love with you since the first time I caught sight of you."

Sinead was stunned into silence, looking up at Rein's open, easy smile. "But...what do you mean?" she finally stammered.

A few years younger, and one of the best apprentices in our class," he said. "I couldn't stop staring at your beautiful hair. All bundled up when it should flow freely. I thought the same of you, and I still do every time you hide yourself behind your books. He took hold of the pins in her hair and gently pulled them free. Her braid fell, unweaving in the wind. "Look at you. You are a vision, Sinead. I would be honored to court you, if you'll have me."

Sinead's breath was high and light and a radiant smile crossed her lips as she nodded. Rein studied her a moment, fingers brushing through her hair. Then he leaned down and kissed her, pulling her against him. His lips were fervent and wanting, his kiss hard and hungry. She tried to keep up with the hunger, a desier filling her that she had never felt before as his tongue brushed her teeth and his hand traveled up her waist and caressed her breast. A small voice of panic lit up her mind - too fast! But the desire muted it, wanting no protest. His lips left hers and traveled down her neck, the orange light of the dying sun illuminating the copper in his hair.

Not the sun. She glanced toward the city.

"Rein," she gasped. "The city's on fire."

Rein pulled away, breathing deep, and looked where she pointed. Fire lit up the docks, and as they watched another fire appeared inside the streets of Lowtown. Then another, and another, until the city was aflame. In the distance, the Chantry bell began to chime.

Sinead pulled away from Rein, picked up her hairpins and ran to the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"To see what's going on," she said without looking back. She clambered down the stairs to the first floor and opened the door on a line of nervous mages making whispered speculations while they walked to the assembly hall, Templars leading the way. Rein fell in behind her as she joined the group.

"What does it matter to us if the city is on fire," he murmured into her ear as they filed into the hall. "The people think not of us in the tower."

Knight-Captain Cullen climbed the dais as the last mages entered the hall. "I have grave news," he said. "I've received word that the Arishok is leading an attack on Kirkwall."

The hall erupted in surprised cries and panicked shouting.

"Please remain calm." The Knight-Captain held up his arms, trying to quiet the din. "It is likely that the Qunari forces will reach the Gallows, and when they do every mage with a staff must be ready to fight. Until then, we are leading a force into the city to bolster its defenses. Anyone is welcome to join this force if they wish."

"Why should we help defend a city that hates us?" someone cried out.

"Magic exists to serve man," Cullen said sternly. "We have a duty to help those who are defenseless against this attack."

"The Knight-Captain is right." Orsino joined him on the dais. "What use are we to others if the city falls around us? Step forward, any who are willing to protect the innocents against the Qunari aggressors!"

Again the din rose as mages talked over each other.

"Has the First Enchanter lost his mind?" Rein snorted. "The Templars would be leading us like nugs into Orzammar."

Sinead barely heard him. Images of dark, twisted creatures coming out of the forest filled her mind - of her mother's blood pooling around her body.

"I'll come!" She heard her voice before she registered that it was she who spoke.

"What are you doing?" Rein hissed.

She shot him a severe look and pushed to the front of the crowd. "I'll come," she said again, holding up her staff and nodding at the Knight-Captain.

Cullen shot her a grateful look. "Are there any others?"

There was a small moment of shuffling, but soon a number of mages came forward, joining Sinead in front of the dais. As the last volunteer raised his staff, Rein stepped up beside her.

"You will come help the people who don't think of us?" she murmured.

"I'll come help you," he replied, taking her hand. "I'm not losing you to the oxmen."

Orsino clapped his hands. "All who have volunteered, make their way to the ferries. The rest of you, prepare for an attack. Quickly, now. And may the Maker be with you all."

* * *

 

The streets were filled with smoke - it burned Sinead's eyes and she was constantly wiping tears from them. The Templars had broken them into small groups of four - one Templar for every three mages - and they spread out as they headed for Hightown, looking for attackers.

They passed the fallen as they canvassed the city - men and women in rough clothing with bows cradled beneath them. Others, peasants, who had not run fast enough when the attack came.

"Thoats cut," Rein murmured. "That's bandits, not oxmen. Maker-cursed opportunists."

Sinead ran behind the Templar leading their party, trying to avoid looking at the dead. But her eyes could not ignore the large gray bodies they passed from time to time, half-naked and covered in war paint. She had never seen a qunari, only read their tales and their Qun. They seemed unreal - far too massive to be true people. Perhaps the Chantry was right and these creatures were monsters.

As they climbed the stairs that led to Hightown, the Templar said, "The Knight-Captain says the Qunari are targeting nobles. We'll search every high household, and if we find people, we'll gather 'em up and head for the Gallows. Is that clear?"

He did not wait for an answer, leading them through clean cobbled streets, past deserted estates with busted-in doors. He turned down a small avenue, wove through a few small alleys, and to a quiet cul de sac that showed no signs of attack. He nodded at the mages and kicked in a door.

An old man waited for them, clothed in dress chainmail and holding an ornamental sword. He swung at the Templar, who easily dodged the attack and stopped the man's hand.

"We're here to help," he said quickly. "I'm Ser Fenton."

The old man saw Fenton's armor and sagged with relief. "A Templar. Thank the Maker." He pointed up a grand staircase. "My daughter and her children are upstairs under a bed."

"You two fetch 'em." Fenton nodded at Rein and Sinead. "We'll stay here in case those bastards show."

Sinead ran up the stairs, Rein following close behind. They passed opulent rooms and elaborate tapestries, footsteps muffled by a thick rug. Sinead tried to open a door at the end of the hall, but it was blocked.

"My name is Sinead," she said through the door. "I'm a mage from the Gallows. We've come to help."

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of scraping as whatever piece of furniture blocking the door was moved out of the way. A harried woman opened the door, throwing her arms around Sinead.

"I thought we were abandoned," she said, weeping.

"Pull yourself together," Rein snapped, impatient. "We don't have time for hysteria."

"Of course." The woman pulled away and wiped her cheeks. "Girls, we must flee!" Three little girls, none older than eight, crawled out from under the bed.

"Mama, these are mages," the eldest whispered.

"Yes, but they are _good_ mages," the woman soothed, picking up the youngest and taking the eldest's hand. Rein made a disgusted noise.

Sinead scooped up the middle child. "We must be swift," she said, leading them down the stairs. "And very quiet."

Fenton was pulling the chainmail from the old man as they reached the lower level. "Good," he said, throwing the mail aside and taking the child from Sinead. "Take the last girl," he said to Rein. "We can't be slowed by small feet."

Rein complied, and they left the estate, running through the alleys. From time to time Fenton held up a hand and they stopped, avoiding a group of Qunari as they passed. Then they ran on. Eventually he skidded to a stop. Two Qunari were guarding the entrance to the alley that they had to leave to reach Lowtown, their gray backs taught with readiness.

"Andraste's blood," Fenton muttered.

Sinead looked around her group - Rein, the woman and Fenton holding the children, the old man swaying on his feet, and the third mage, a woman named Avery who worked with the healers. She was shaking with fear, staff held between her hands as if it was keeping her from falling from a great height. Sinead made a decision.

"Go 'round the corner," Sinead whispered to Fenton. "I can lead them away."

"Are you mad?" Rein shook his head. "Ser, she's still new with her staff."

"And I'm also the most powerful mage here," she shot back. "They'll never catch me, ser, I swear it. Darkspawn can't catch me, and neither can a couple of these giants."

Fenton gave her a critical look. "Run like the wind, girl," he said finally. "And when you've lost them, I want you back at the docks as fast as your legs can carry you, you hear?"

Sinead lifted her chin and turned. Rein grabbed her arm. "Don't do this."

SHe smiled and kissed his cheek. "Stay safe." She sprinted down the alley, passing the Qunari at a full run, letting sparks trail from her staff.

"Get the bas saarebas," one growled at the other. She turned, slowing her pace and gathering her mana. Bricks exploded around the Qunari, raining dust and debris upon them.

"You creatures have ruined my city," she said loudly. She pulled at her mana again, and the stones cracked around their feet. "How dare you attack innocents. You have no honor!"

"Sten?" The Qunari told to fetch her looked at his superior, unsure.

"Venak hol. I will deal with her myself." The Sten drew his sword, raising it and running at her, the underling following behind. Sinead waited until they were close, feigning surprise and fear (the latter wasn't too hard to fake), then ran as they reached her, turning a corner. She was swift, but their long gaits were difficult to outrun. SHe felt the wind of a blade missing its target at her back. She gathered her mana and the cobbles she passed iced over. She heard one of the Qunari slip and fall with a grunt as she turned another corner. She stopped and turned on her heel to wait for the Qunari, holding her breath and tapping the depths of her mana. She considered blood, but dismissed it, remembering Eluard's warning.

They came around a corner at a run, and she unleashed a wave of power, sending everything at them that she could. They flew out of the alley and across the street, hitting a wall hard enough to crack the brick. The Sten landed on the ground with a thud and did not move. The underling crawled toward him, calling something in his language that Sinead could not understand. She backed down the alley, willing herself to run, but her feet refused to move. She had to know the fate of the Sten.

The underling placed his fingers on the Sten's neck, and his face loosened with relief. Then he picked up his sword, shook himself, and ran at Sinead with a roar. Mana almost tapped, Sinead turned heel and ran again. The Qunari caught up quickly. She jumped atop a set of crates, trying to reach the roof. The Qunari swung at the crates, breaking them to pieces and causing her to tumble into the splinters. She had enough time to create a quick barrier before she hit the stones, and though it bruised her she was able to quickly roll out of the way as the Qunari's sword came down. She sent out another wave of power, not enough to fling him back but enough to unbalance him for a moment and give her time to get to her feet. She ran a few steps, but stopped - the alley was a dead end. Flashbacks to another alley filled her head. She turned to meet the Qunari, staff raised. Her heart quavered at the thought, but she knew that she could kill this creature if she had to.

The Qunari didn't rush her. He was in a fighting stance, studying her like one would study a wounded feral animal. As some unfortunate creature that had to be put down. She watched his face, which she realized was smooth and unmarked. If he was older than her, it was by months, not years, and along with the anger and fear that twisted his features, there was also sadness. Pity.

Not a creature or a monster. This was a man who had been told all his life that mages were pitiful, dangerous beings. A man whose Arishok led an attack on the city that was no doubt seen as a means of freeing people with the "truth" of the Qun. The Qunari took a single step forward.

"I don't want to kill you," Sinead blurted in a panic. "Please don't make me!"

The Qunari squinted, confused. "You...fear my death, not yours? But you attacked _us_."

"If I wanted to kill you, I could have without your knowing," she said, calming her panic. "I was the distraction."

"There were others. Of course." The Qunari nodded. "This makes sense. We should not have left our post."

"But you did, and now we're here," she said quickly. "Please, I have no argument with you. We are both doing what we were told was best - you were sent to watch the streets for escapees, I was sent to keep people from being taken. We have both done our duty. No one need die."

The Qunari shook his head slowly. "If you must kill me, do so. I cannot let you go free." He raised his sword and rushed her.

In the time they spoke, her mana had trickled back. She pulled it up and spun a thick web of ice around the Qunari. He tried to break free, but every column of ice he crushed grew two more in its place until his limbs were tangled and trapped. His sword fell from his hand and clattered on the cobblestones.

"It'll melt fast," she said, picking up the sword and leaning it against the wall. "You won't freeze."

The Qunari stared at her, surprised etched around his eyes. "If you can do this, would it not be easier to turn my body to ice?"

"Easy isn't always best," she muttered. There was a silence as Sinead quickly checked the ice to make sure what she said was true - a trap, but ultimately survivable. The Qunari watched her, still studying her like a forein, unknown thing. 

"Others are patrolling," he finally said, slowly, as if unsure he should speak. "If you want to survive, you should run, bas saarabas."

Sinead looked up at him, opened her mouth, then instead of replying nodded. She ran back down the alley, slowing her feet as she approached the entrance. She slid along the wall, heart pounding, and peeked out at the street.

The Sten was awake, and had pulled himself up to sitting against the far wall. He held his chest, nursing broken ribs, Sinead thought. And Rein stood over him, the Sten's sword in his hand, pointing at the Qunari's throat.

"I'll ask you one more time, beast, _where is she_?" The rage in Rein's voice was palpable. She was shocked - never had this charming young man expressed such anger. She had noticed his irritation throughout the rescue mission, but she thought it just the strangeness of the situation. This was something else.

"I do not know where the mage woman is," the Sten said calmly. "I could ask you the same for my apprentice and receive the same answer."

"You filthy blasphemous creature," Rein spat. "You're no use to me." He plunged the sword into the Qunari's neck.

Sinead screamed and ran to them, pushing Rein from the Sten. The blade came with him, and blood poured from the Qunari's wound. She pressed her hand against it, trying to stop the blood.

"What are you doing?" Rein said breathlessly.

"Shut up!" She tapped her mana, willing the artery to heal, the ragged edges to mend. But the blood came too fast for the magic, soaking her arms and her robes. She tapped deeper. The Sten watched her as she worked, the same surprise etched around his eyes as that of his underling. His bright green eyes. The blood slowed, but still did not cease. _Pull from the blood_ , her logic cried. _You can heal him with the power in the blood_. But Eluard's warning loomed, and her fear kept her from using her final skill.

The Sten died, eyes dulling, head lolling, as she said over and over again, "Don't go."

"Sinead?" Rein placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me." Her voice was cold, mechanical. She stood and yanked the sword from him, then laid it against the dead Qunari.

"You...pity this oxman?" Rein shook his head in disbelief. "Are you mad?"

Sinead did not answer. She stumbled away from him in the direction of the docks, ignoring him as he followed behind and asked her questions, then pleaded, and ultimately berated her as a sentimental fool.


	7. Dissertation

The Arishok was dead, defeated by the new Champion of Kirkwall. But so were the Viscount and his family. This was the first reason Knight Commander Meredith gave for the increased security at the Gallows. She gathered the mages in the assembly hall and explained bluntly that the threat of apostates and blood magic had grown and Kirkwall was too unstable to allow an influx of malificar in the streets.

"The Templars have taken a vow to protect the people, and be it from magic or social unrest they shall be protected."

A new curfew was imposed in which every mage was to be in their quarters by eleven at night and the doors to their quarters locked. Chamber pots were slid under every cot by the Tranquil, and screens added to every room as a weak privacy measure. A few months later, the Enchanters who taught the apprentices had their lessons scrutinized, the children interrogated about each new spell they learned. Then assemblies of more than eight mages were banned outside the dining hall – lessons and library times became a rotation of strict scheduling to enforce this rule. And after that, whole classes were cut for being too "risky", too far from what would reasonably help those without magic. "What is the purpose of a mage who can kill a man with an electric shock, but cannot heal a wound?" was Meredith's excuse. Complaints that magical talent differed between mages just like any other Maker-given talent fell on deaf ears.

About a year after the Arishok's attack, they came for the books. A squad of Templars, led by Knight-Captain Cullen, was sent to sort through every book in the library, searching for any signs of unacceptable magic. The tomes deemed dangerous were placed in boxes labeled by Sinead and Rein. Sinead brushed the spines of the forbidden books, saying goodbye to old friends.

"They will not be destroyed," Cullen assured Master Norwin when the latter man argued against such a thing with bluster. "We simply wish to remove any temptation from the eyes of the youngest in the Gallows. Any mage will be allowed access to more challenging material with previous approval."

"Can't you see what's happening, Captain?" Norwin sputtered, banging his staff on the ground. "We are being pushed to the brink based on the actions of a few evil souls. Would you lock up every man woman and child in Kirkwall to stop the bandits and thieves? Open your eyes, ser!"

Cullen shook his head, though a troubled look passed over his face. "Meredith is just trying to keep order. This will pass when Kirkwall has a new Viscount and stability is restored. Have patience."

But a new Viscount was not appointed, and the harsh policies remained. A discontented murmur filled the Gallows – mages began meeting in secret, arguing about what they should do to protest the rules. Disobeying in small ways, like sneaking out at night to steal cookies from the larder, or staying a little too long in the library, hidden away in the stacks. Those that were caught were punished with nights locked up alone in stark rooms without supper.

And there were darker rumors as well, rumors of mages turning to blood magic for answers and power, desperate to find a way to escape their prison. From time to time, people disappeared, never to be heard of again. It was unknown if the disappearances were escapees or those who succumbed to dark forces and were now no more than a bloodstain on the stone.

Sinead took the oppressive measures in stride. It was not as if she approved – if she gave herself time to think, she'd recall her time in the Brecilian forest and be filled with disgust at the fear of magic the Circle and particularly the Gallows ingrained in mages and mundanes alike. But there was little time to think between her lessons with Norwin on how to properly run a research library and her personal research toward her dissertation, a necessary document if she was to prove her own credentials as a credible academic. There was also her staff schedule at the library, made more frantic by how little time anyone had to seek and find their desired material. In an effort to save time, she began guessing what each person who signed up on the schedule needed based on asking around the Gallows about projects and lessons and experiments. After a time it became like a sixth sense and all she needed was a name to make a connection to a possible text – Enchanter Wallace, botany, Plants of the Hissing Wastes or Apprentice Catherine, Primal lessons, A Brief Lesson in Proper Hand Positions.

But despite her obvious packed schedule, her seeming lack of interest in the plight of she and her fellow mages made her no friends. What few comrades she had gathered in her years at the Gallows drifted away, and one day she realized that most of her midday meals were eaten alone, books spread before her. She and Rein maintained a polite cordiality in the library, but their relationship never fully mended after the Arishok's attack. At first he had tried once more to court her, but every time he touched her, she saw the rage on his face and the Sten's blood coating her hands. Eventually he gave up, and they had little to say to each other aside from who was to shelve and who should help poor Apprentice Madrick understand the readings he was given.

But she had gained one companion – Avery, the apprentice healer. It was a surprise to Sinead. They had little in common, but for reasons unknown to her Avery sought her out soon after they returned from their rescue mission and decided they were fast friends. Sinead was grateful for the young woman's cheerful company and patience when Sinead began long, in depth accounts of whatever mythos she was swimming through. In return, Sinead learned how to feign interest in tinctures, ointments, stories of unpleasant patients and even more unpleasant injuries until she came to genuinely enjoy Avery's in-depth review of life as a healer.

She also had a habit of keeping Sinead's feet firmly on the ground, which is what she was trying to do this day as they chatted over breakfast.

"You're far too cynical," Sinead said, stirring a bit of honey in her oatmeal. "The Knight-Captain said the books would be available to any who asked. Just because no one has asked in the last two years doesn't mean that they're banned."

"No one has asked because they know that they're banned," Avery shot back, giving her a no-nonsense look. "You're dreaming if you think Cullen will give permission just because your dissertation demands it."

"Fabricio is the last piece I need!" Passion flooded Sinead's voice. "Damn me for not making the notes when I read the book, but without his insight the paper will be incomplete and I'll  _never_  make archivist. And Norwin has already given me two extensions. He's threatening to toss the position he's been holding for me to Sorenson."

"Sorenson? That blowhard?" Avery glanced at the table where Sorenson and his Loyalist cohorts sat, frowning at his balding pate.

"I know, it's terrible. He'd be a monster. I think he believes the available books could be cut in half again."

The bells chimed the hour – eight. Avery jumped from her chair. "Oh, Enchanter Lyla is going to  _kill me_. Good luck, Shinna. If you manage to charm the Knight-Captain, let me know so that I can look for flying nugs!"

As Avery ran off, Sinead quickly polished off her oatmeal and handed her bowl to one of the Tranquil clearing the hall. As she walked toward the Templar wing of the Gallows, her passion was overcome by a sense of doubt. She was sure that the Knight-Captain would grant her leave to search the censored books. Of course he would. But if he didn't…what would she do then? Would she join the other discontents and search the books anyway? Would she finally have to make a stand against the Templars' new measures?

She reached the open door of the Knight-Captain's office, nodding at the stern Templars that guarded either end of the hallway, and hesitated a moment – he was reading through a report with a frown marring his generally quite attractive face.  _Perhaps this wasn't the right time_ , she thought. Then she lifted her chin.  _No, I must. Think of Fabricio. Think of_  Sorenson. She knocked on the door.

Cullen looked up, his face clearing. "Oh, hello. Sinead, is it? Norwin's apprentice?" He set his report aside and waved a hand at a chair. "How can I help you?"

Sinead nodded and sat. "Hello, Knight-Captain. I've come to ask – that is, you see, I'm working on my dissertation, and –" She paused and took a breath, gathering her thoughts. "Ser, I need access to the censored collection. I'm nearly finished with my dissertation, but there is a book with a particular set of quotes and theories that I need to complete it. It was locked up, I believe because it brushes on a postulation that the Elvhen may have used blood magic in some of their rituals. But what I need from it has nothing to do with that."

Cullen was silent a moment. He tapped a slow rhythm on his desk. "I see," he said finally. He was clearly uncomfortable.

 _He's going to deny permission_ , Sinead thought in disbelief.

"The thing is, well. When the books were originally locked up, it was assumed that they weren't harmful to a well-trained mage and it was determined that any mage who passed their Harrowing should have access." Cullen folded his hands together. "But Meredith had a few of the men fully examine the collection, and found that most of them had no purposeful theories and far too many referenced blood magic and harmful rituals to deem them safe."

Cullen stopped speaking. He was staring at his desk. Avoiding her eyes.

Sinead's mouth was open in shock. "But." The words would not come. She tried again. "But ser, I've read a number of those books. Some of them are fanciful, but for most the knowledge within them is invaluable." Her chest clenched and she grabbed the arms of the chair. "You didn't destroy them, did you?"

Cullen looked up, surprised. "Of course not! We aren't book burners, Sinead. They're just safely in storage until the city stabilizes."

"But when will that be?" Her anger flared. "It's been two years already. Are we to wait without any sort of hope for better times?"

"Meredith says – "

"Meredith! Meredith forces me to piss in a pot in front of my roommate," Sinead snapped. "Because she doesn't think I can go to the privy without shooting magic from my arse!"

She closed her mouth with a snap, a deep blush rising from her neck as Cullen blinked and coughed.

"Well. As…colorful as that was, I can't call it untrue." He rubbed his eyes and sighed. "It's only one book you need? Can you take notes from it, or do you need it on your person?"

Sinead sat up strait, heart flipping. "I can take notes. I'd need an hour or two, but I can take notes!"

Cullen nodded. "Very well. Ser Fenton will accompany you into the basements tomorrow afternoon. He's spoken highly of you, and I don't think he'd mind helping you find this book. Let him read the notes you take, and all will be well. Is that clear?"

"Very clear." Sinead hopped up from her chair and clapped her hands. "Thank you, Knight-Captain." She left the office, grinning wide enough to make her mouth hurt.

* * *

Ser Fenton was not a man to be rushed, and was indeed the type that would purposefully slow his movements if he thought someone was being impatient. He thought it taught his younger charges discipline. So Sinead kept her mouth shut and her feet still as he casually searched through his key ring for the key to the storage room where dangerous artifacts were kept.

"I didn't know they stashed the books in the DA room," she said to keep her irritation at bay. "That seems like overkill."

"Never underestimate the power of knowledge. That's what the Knight-Commander says, anyway. Can't seem to stop going on about it," he muttered. "Hold that glowstone a bit closer, will you lass?"

He found the key and opened the door on a large room filled with a mix of oddities. It was like the attic of an eccentric collector – statuettes lying on top of ornately carved tables, trunks spilling out their contents of silky materials, a whole pile of brass candelabras in one corner, most of them coated in a thin green slime, a large and very ugly wooden carving of a giant dog. And in the middle, boxes upon boxes of books. Sinead ran to them, running her hands over the boxes in dismay, disturbing a year's worth of dust.

"They're all out of order. It'll take me time to find the book I need."

"Go ahead then," Ser Fenton said as he lit a torch on the wall with his flint. "Being down here means I don't have to do guard duty. Take your time."

Sinead began to unpile the boxes, separating them by their labels and setting aside any that may hold Fabricio's book. As she worked, Ser Fenton walked the store room, examining the strange artifacts.

"In all my time as a Templar, I never found anything this interesting," he said gruffly. "Even when I was on the hunt for apostates, the best I ever found one with was a copy of the Chant of Light that the poor sod had gone through with some sort of number system. Thought he was able to predict the end of the world." He chuckled.

"It is an odd collection," Sinead said, distracted by her work. "Everything has a tinge of magic to it. Makes the room taste like coppers. I feel a darkness around some of the objects. You'd think they'd find another room to –" she looked up. Ser Fenton was staring at one of the statuettes. It was a miniature of a snarling wolf carved from ebony and it was locked inside a silverite cage. He began to stroke the cage. She stood and approached him carefully. "Ser Fenton, I think you need to back away from that."

"Yes, of course." He wasn't talking to her. He opened the cage and pulled out the statuette.

"Ser Fenton!" She tried to knock the thing from his hand, but he pushed her back.

"It's mine," he snarled. "You can't have it."

The statuette sprouted tendrils that thickened into sharp, thorned vines. It grew rapidly, twisting around Fenton's arm and pushing into his armor.

"Yes," he sighed in ecstasy. "Consume me."

Sinead gathered her mana and threw out a wave of power, tossing Fenton across the room. As he landed on his back, she ran and jumped on his arm, pressing it down to the floor with her legs. The thorns bit into her, but she clenched her teeth through the pain and grabbed the statuette with both hands. Fenton tried to push her off, but she held on as he bucked and tapped deep within her mana. The statuette burst into flames. A squeal erupted from it, like a thing in pain, and the vines writhed over Fenton's arm. Sinead pushed, spending all the mana she could, and the flames burned blue. The statuette was eaten away by the fire, and as it became a formless lump of charcoal the vines dried and cracked and crumbled away. She dropped the lump, stood and crushed it beneath her boots.

Fenton was breathing hard. He was covered in a layer of sweat and holding his stomach. "I think that…thing ate into me," he gasped.

Quickly Sinead unclasped his breast plate and pulled it from him. There were holes in his gambeson around the gut, rimmed with blood. Her stomach sank as she unbuttoned the gambeson and pulled it away from his skin. His gut matched the gambeson – holes punched through Ser Fenton, ragged and bloody, the intestines visibly eviscerated.

He was going to die. Even if she managed to find help, he would be poisoned by his own waste by the time she came back. And no proper healing could fix the damage before the sepsis set in. It would be painful, and long, and terrible.

 _No proper healing_ , she thought. She set her jaw and pulled Fenton's sword from its scabbard.

Fenton was pale. "That bad, lass?" he said, gasping the words. "Very well. If you're going to end it, the quickest way is the neck or the armpit." He pointed to show her where the arteries were. "Don't hesitate. Push hard or it'll be painful."

"I'm not going to kill you," she said crossly, laying the sword on its side, edge up. "I'm going to try my damndest to save you." She cut her hand on the edge, hissing at the pain, then pulled the power from the blood dripping down her arm and stirred it in with her mana.

It was incredible how much stronger she felt with the blood. It had been six years since she last tapped it, and she had forgotten the power. It left her giddy, intoxicated. She understood now better than she did as a child why people sacrificed others for this sensation. And why Eluard taught her while young that to do so was a malicious path.

With the power she felt through Fenton's pain, felt the damaged tissues, and knew what she had to do to make things right. She cleared the beginnings of infection first, burning it carefully away, and then mended the intestines, bringing ragged bits together and demanding that they heal. Finally she closed the wounds, building muscle and skin where it had been shorn. As she finished, she let go of the power, falling to the side in a fit of vertigo. Her head spun and her hands felt cold.

For a moment, Fenton did not move. Then he lifted himself to sitting and pressed a hand to his stomach. "Feels like I've been punched a few times, but no more than that," he said gravely. "A neat trick."

Sinead closed her eyes. Her secret was out. Eluard's warning was for naught. Her mother's sacrifice meant nothing. The Templar vows demanded that they strike down known blood mages. If Fenton took pity on her, it would only mean she was destined for Tranquility.

"I had to," she whispered. "What's the point of knowing how to use it if you don't use it when it's needed?"

Fenton lifted Sinead to her feet, wrapping a handkerchief around her bleeding hand. He had dressed and put on his breastplate, hiding the damaged gambeson.

"Listen here lass," he said lowly. "I'm no lover of blood magic. Never saw anything good come of it until now. But I'll be sent to the Void before I let a girl like you get cut down. Come on." He led her from the store room and around a few corners to a small room filled with cleaning goods at the back of the basement. He leaned down and brushed the floor with a hand until he found a hollow in one of the stones and pulled up. A square section of floor came neatly away, hinged on a wooden frame. A set of stairs led down into darkness.

"This was built as an escape route if abominations flooded the building and the main doors were barred," he explained. "I'm sure more than one mage has escaped this way before." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "If you ever find yourself in trouble lass, or you have to use that magic again and someone less like me sees you, you move as fast as your feet will take you down this tunnel and as far away from this Maker-cursed place as you can, you hear me?"

Sinead stared at him. She nodded in surprise, unable to speak.

"Good." He closed the hidden door. It sank into the floor and once again was invisible. "Come on, then, let's hurry up and get you your blasted notes so that we can leave this bloody hole."


	8. Annulment

Sinead's dissertation was accepted by Master Norwin, insuring her place as an under archivist in the library – and then it was promptly stored away in the dangerous artifacts room for containing theories based on malevolent writings. Soon after, there was another purge of the library, this time without the supervision of Norwin and his staff.

"This is my fault," Sinead said as they stood outside the library doors, watching the Templars carry off boxes of books. "I shouldn't have been so insistent about going through the censored material."

"It's not your fault," Rein said hotly, pacing the hallway. "They'll use any excuse they can to hide away arcane knowledge. You wait and see; soon the library will be closed off completely along with the labs and the classrooms. The Knight-Commander won't be happy until we all spend our days locked away in our quarters!"

"Careful, young Rein," Norwin said quietly.

"The time for being careful is over, Master. This tyranny must end." Rein stormed off, ignoring the black looks of the Templars.

As more time passed, arguments among the Fraternities became a regular occurrence during breakfast. The Loyalists and Libertarians nearly came to blows one morning, forcing the Templars to step in and dispel the area, sending the main instigators off to their quarters.

"Full enchanters and they can't act like adults," Avery muttered.

"They're not really being treated like adults anyway," Sinead replied. "Who can blame them for their behavior?"

"Oh, that's Libertarian talk," Avery said, poking her friend's shoulder. "Is miss nose in the book a secret revolutionary?"

Sinead shrugged. "Everyone's a revolutionary if they're pushed far enough, don't you think?"

Her words became an unwanted prophecy. One day she was waiting in the library for Apprentice Madrick as it was her turn to tutor the hapless young man. She was checking the candle clock at the front of the library, annoyed at Madrick's tardiness, when a young girl tried to run into the library.

"Hold!" The Templar guarding the door said. "Are you signed up for this time?"

The girl ignored the Templar. "Under archivist Sinead! Madrick's to be made tranquil!"

"What? Ser Aldon, let Livia in – the library hasn't reached capacity yet." The Templar reluctantly complied and the girl threw herself at Sinead, rubbing her teary face into Sinead's shoulder.

"He's my best friend," the girl sobbed. "The boys say that they came for him last night. That he was too afraid to go through the Harrowing. He's the same age as me, Sinead. Will they come for me, too?"

Sinead's stomach dropped. She knew every apprentice, having tutored them all at one point or another. Madrick wasn't a strong mage, and he was very forgetful, but that could be forgiven in a boy of fourteen. She thought she had years to help him through his worst subjects, years for his teachers to knock enough talent and confidence into him that he could resist the call of a demon.

"Come, Livia, there must be a mistake." She took the girl by the hand. "Let's visit First Enchanter Orsino."

She was not the only mage in the Gallows to hear about Madrick. The hall outside Orsino and Knight Commander Meredith's offices was crowded with muttering men and women. There was shouting coming from Meredith's office, Orsino's usually calm voice raised to a high volume. Meredith's door flew open, and she marched out, Orsino close on her heels.

"It's unprecedented," he spat, jabbing a finger at Meredith. "And it's cruel. To force a mage that young to choose between Harrowing and Tranquility is madness!"

"He was a risk to himself and everyone else here," Meredith said stonily. "Do you hear me?" She shot a hard look at the crowd. "We've watched the boy for years now, and he showed little sign of strength. The sooner we weed out such risks, the better for us all."

"You'd have us all tranquil if the Chantry would allow it!" someone called out. The crowd erupted into jeers and insults.

"Clear the hall now or you will all be escorted to your quarters," Meredith bellowed. The crowd's din increased.

Sinead pulled Livia out of the crowd and through the doorway to the gardens right before the Templars began breaking up the crowd.

"What's happening?" Livia said, voice filled with fear as she kept with Sinead's quick pace.

"I'm not sure." Sinead stopped halfway through the garden, staring at the overgrown bushes – the botanists had been unable tend the garden for months, due to fears of "unsavory spellcraft" used in pest control. "I think everything is going to fall apart," she said finally.

Livia sat on a bench, crossing her arms and shaking. "When papa said good-bye to me, he said I was going somewhere safe," she said tearily. "Somewhere where the people wouldn't throw rocks at me or call me a demon. I miss him so much."'

Watching the girl sniffle, afraid and unsure, Sinead's anger bubbled up, burning through her limbs. She sat and took hold of Livia's shoulders.

"Listen carefully and pass this on to every apprentice. Say it comes from me. If I ever say to you 'Go get Fabricio's Treatises' I want you to run as fast as you can 'round the Gallows spreading the message to the others and then I want you to run to the servant's stairway in the east wing. 'Go get Fabricio's Treatises'. Do you understand?"

Wide-eyed, the girl nodded. "I'll tell them."

* * *

The day that Kirkwall's Circle fell began like any other in the new oppressive regime. Sinead woke early, washed herself with cold water behind the modesty screen, pulled her robes over her head, then rebraided her hair, twisting it into a crown and pinning it in place. The lock clanked open, and she and her roommate made small talk as they walked to the dining hall. They wished each other a good day politely before separating, Sinead joining Avery at a long table for a meal of warm cereal, tea, and boiled eggs. The bells rang, and she headed to the library, picking up the sign-up list and trying to guess which texts each mage would consider the most useful.

Rein had not yet come in for his shift by the midday meal, which she didn't find unusual. His attendance was spotty over the last year due to frequent attendance of small group discussions with the Loyalist enchanters. He would make up for it by taking on the dullest tasks – reshelving, relabeling books, reading through requests for material from other Circles. Norwin was not pleased, but since his meagre staff did not complain he did not press the issue.

Tutoring times began in late afternoon, and Sinead was deep in discussion with an older apprentice named Gallagher when she heard a distant repercussion. She paused in her explanation of a theory, listening carefully.

"…under archivist?" Gallagher said hesitantly.

"Shh. Wait here." She left the library and crossed the hallway into an empty classroom, peering out of a thin arrow slit. Kirkwall's cliffs could be seen from this angle, and a deep orange light tinted the clouds above Hightown. She backed away, her breathing shallow, and crossed back into the library.

"Is everything okay?" Gallagher's face was pale and worried. Sinead battled with herself for a moment, not wanting to cause a panic, not even sure that the fires in Hightown meant trouble for them. "Under archivist?"

She made a decision. "Gallagher, can you go get Fabricio's Treatises? I think that it will help my explanation greatly."

Gallagher swallowed hard. He nodded and stood, said, "Right away, miss," and ran off.

She crossed through the library, searching the stacks for Norwin. He was deep within, pondering a cracked tome.

"Practically nothing but Chantry propaganda, this one," he said, tapping it as she approached. "Only reason they kept it here, I'm sure, for the wealth of information you can gather between the lines is great."

"Master Norwin, something's happening," she said lowly. "I don't know what it is, but it's bad. I think we must flee."

Norwin peered at her. "Flee? What are you going on about, young lady?"

"Please, Norwin, we should go." She placed a hand over his. "I fear the worst."

Norwin frowned deeply. "If you think you should flee, then flee, girl," he said, voice practically a whisper. "I am an old man and my life is here, no matter what comes of it."

"But-"

"No buts." He squeezed her hand in his. "Go."

She nodded and then turned away, keeping her face blank as she passed the Templars guarding the library. She walked unhurriedly through the halls and up flights of stairs to her quarters, passing mages who rushed back and forth, Templars looking through windows, Tranquil ignoring everything and going about their chores. In her quarters, she dove for her old leather pack, stashed under her cot and creaking with age, nothing in it but Eluard's word game and the book Norwin had given her on her first night at the Gallows which she had ferretted away when the first purge hit the library.

As she left her room, Avery collided with her, hugging her close. She was breathing heavily, as if she had run every flight of stairs to the mage quarters.

"The Chantry," she gasped, pulling away. "It's gone."

"Calm down, deep breaths," Sinead said.

Avery took a shuddering breath. "The Chantry was destroyed. Blown up. Hundreds are dead. Ferries filled with injured people are demanding to dock at the Gallows. They want healing and - Sinead." She shook her friend. "It was a mage that did it. An apostate."

Sinead's blood ran cold. "Maker's breath. They'll kill every one of us."

"Who will?"

"Does it matter?" She took Avery's hand and pulled her toward the east wing.

"Where are we going?"

"I need your help. We need to get the apprentices to safety." They reached the stairs and went down a flight, only to be stopped by a large group of children huddling among the stairs. One of them jumped up.

"Under Archivist!"

The children began talking at once, asking questions.

"Hush." Sinead said, firm and low. "We have to move quickly and quietly, understood? Is everyone here?" She did a quick count – fifty-seven children between the ages of eight and seventeen. Her heart quailed – how could she hope to keep so many safe? She pushed through to the front of the group. "Anyone too small to move fast, I want you on the back of an elder. Avery, make sure no one falls behind. Let's go."

She led them down the flights, and as they passed each floor, the sounds on the other side of the doors became more troubling. Cries of fear and pain, clanging metal, small explosions of power. One of the smaller children was crying. Sinead counted each floor they passed to keep the fear at bay that someone would search the servants' stairs and find them.

One flight up from the ground floor, she heard a door slam and footsteps race up toward them. She didn't have time to give warning before Rein ran around the corner and slammed into her. He backed up a few steps, gawking at the group of apprentices.

"What are you doing," he asked breathlessly. His shaggy hair was mussed, and shallow cuts ran up his arm. He held his staff up, and it buzzed with recently used magic.

"I'm taking the apprentices somewhere safe," she said. "Come with."

Rein stared at her as if she had lost her mind. "You're  _fleeing_? Sinead, do you know what they're doing out there? They're slaughtering us! Meredith has enacted the Rite of Annulment!"

There were gasps and cries of distress from the children.

"All the more reason to get to safety as quickly as possible," Sinead said. "Come on, children."

She moved to continue down the stairs, but Rein blocked her way. "The Libertarians are trying to gather up enough forces in the grand hall to fight back," he said. "We need every person who can hold a staff. Andraste's flames, we need every person who knows enough magic to fight! You can't take fifty-odd capable mages from us!"

Sinead was taken aback. Her anger flared. "They're  _children_ , Rein, and I'll be damned if a one of them is used as a weapon."

He prodded her chest. "You know as well as I that sometimes children need to fight to live!"

She slapped his hand away. "I do. And that's why these children are going to live  _without_  spilling blood." There was a crash as something slammed into the closed door to the ground floor. "We don't have time to argue about this. Come on!"

She tried to press past him, but he blocked her in. "I can't let you leave," he said, pushing her back. She stumbled into two girls directly behind her as he unsheathed a dagger at his belt and made a shallow cut on his arm. As his blood flowed, he looked at her, pained. "I'm sorry, Sinead."

He was in her mind, trying to wiggle around it like an eel through mud. It felt like ice where he touched, like bits of her were going numb. She wanted so much to follow him, to do as he wished. Did she not love him, after all? Behind her, someone pulled on her sleeves, asking her what was happening, what was wrong. It did not matter, because Rein was there. Rein was everything.

"No," she gasped. The part of her that still knew who she was reached out to Rein's flowing blood. And  _pulled_.

Power filled her limbs, wrapped around her mana, mixed with it. So much power. It came to her easily, like water flowing downhill. Rein's hold on her broke and he stepped back, shocked. He held his arm where his blood flowed, holding the wound, but the power did not stop filling her. It was too much. She had to stop, but she had never taken from another person, and she was not sure how. Mentally she tried to block it, tried to cut it off, tried to push it away, but still it came until Rein seized, coughed up black bile, and slid down the stairs, lifeless. The flow stopped then, and she was unable to move.

"Rein?" she said finally. She climbed down to his body, slapping his cold, blue cheeks. "Rein? Maker, can you hear me? Please Rein, you can't be dead!"

Her head was jerked up and a slap landed on her cheek. "You said it yourself, Sinead," Avery said. "We don't have the time."

Sinead nodded and stood shakily.

"What happened to him," one of the children whimpered.

"Blood magic," Avery said darkly. "See that, kids? That's why we stay away from it. All it takes is one slip to undo you."

* * *

They met no opposition more opposition on the way to the basement, save a locked door that Sinead blew off its hinges. Avery blanched at such power, but asked no questions. The basement was still, no one yet using it as a hiding spot. Sinead led the group down to the secret door and down the hidden stairs. As the door closed behind them, she flared two bright blue flames and ordered them to follow them. Usually a spell that drained the mana quickly, it felt like nothing to keep the flames alight and following their path. The stairs went down in a smooth curve for a long time before leveling out into a long tunnel lined with old, wet torches. Sinead flicked her wrist, and the torches lit along the walls far off into the distance.

The power was heady, exhilarating. She wanted to jump for joy, to unleash the power on those who attacked the mages, to force them to end the conflict. She wanted to burn everything. It was terrifying her – the power pressed against her sense of self, demanded that she change for it, demanded  _more_. And there were voices. She could feel them pressing through the veil, the demons who noticed her show of power when she took Rein's life. They promised such enticing things – we will stop the Annulment, end the oppression, see the mages freed, see the world bow at our feet if you simply  _let me in_. She was dizzy from pushing them back, refusing to acknowledge them.

They walked for nearly half an hour before running into trouble. Sinead began to see glittering in the distance. As they walked, the glittering became twelve heavily armed Templars running at them.

"See, I told you they knew of the tunnel. It's a whole sodding nest of them!" One of them cried. "Come on, men! For the Grand Cleric!"

They drew their swords. Sinead didn't think. She unleashed every bit of the blood magic power, burning them so quickly and with such heat that all that was left of them was ash and puddles of hot white metal. The elation was gone, as were the voices. She stumbled into a wall and retched up her midday meal, then cooled the metal with a cold icy wind.

"Keep moving," she said, avoiding the horrified looks from the children.

They walked on another hour, their pace slowing. At last they reached the end the tunnel and faced another staircase, this one spiraling high and disappearing into darkness.

"Shall we climb it?" Avery said.

Sinead looked at the weary children – most had never traveled such a long distance in their life. Her limbs also ached, not used to such activity after years in the library.

"No." Sinead sat on the ground. "We'll rest here a while and then attempt the climb."

The children sat, miserable at first, but like all children the youngest began to recover from their ordeal, playing little games with each other involving sparks and whining about hunger. The adolescents were more somber, having a better understanding of what they were running from. They talked in whispers, speculating about what was happening back at the Gallows and who would be the most likely to escape.

Avery sat silently next to Sinead, studying her as Sinead pulled out her pins and rebraided her mussed hair.

"How did you find enough power to burn those Templars?" she asked finally.

Panic wrapped around Sinead's chest, and her hands trembled as she continued braiding. It was not Avery she feared – it was that moment before the men caught fire, the determination in their eyes never having the time to switch to pain or fear. She tried not to gasp for breath as her head spun, tried to keep herself steady. So many lives stolen away, lives of people doing what they thought was best, lives she took to save her own miserable existence.

"Are you a malificar?" Avery whispered.

Sinead let out a half-crazed laugh. "I suppose I am now," she said, wrapping her braid and jamming her pins into place. "I'm responsible for horrors." Her voice broke and she hid her face in her hands.

Avery let out a small breath. "I knew it. I could feel it, when you took the power from Rein. The air was heavy." She held her legs against her chest. "Was it terrible?"

Sinead nodded. "The worse part," she whispered, "was how wonderful it felt. All that power. The power of a life. I never want to feel that again." She moved her hands. She thought Avery would be looking at her in horror or anger. Instead she faced a look of awe.

"Sometimes I wish I could think like you," Avery said, shaking her head.

Sinead blinked, confused.

"Under archivist, someone is coming!" One of the children stood up, pointing at a glittering in the distance.

Sinead jumped to her feet. "Up the stairs, now," she commanded. "Avery, you lead them. No sparks, no glowing. Don't go through the door out! We don't know where the tunnel leads, and I don't want anyone emerging into the streets." She unleashed her staff from her back. "I'll meet them. When it's safe, I'll send up a flare."

The children complied, the sound of their feet echoing off the walls of the tunnel for a while before it was muffled by distance.

As the glittering grew closer, Sinead began to shake. To be cut down by Templars would be a proper end after murdering twelve of them. She waffled between the idea of simply letting a sword take her or putting up a fight. A fight would be more realistic – perhaps it would throw the Templars off the scent of the apprentices. She took a deep breath as the helmets of the Templars became more defined and threw a barrier around herself. She was ready to die.

"Sinead?" One of the helmets came off, revealing Ser Fenton. "Knight-Captain, that's Under Archivist Sinead."

The leader of the squad removed his helmet. It was indeed Knight-Captain Cullen. "Thank the Maker, there are more survivors."

"Stay back," Sinead said, raising her staff. There was a rattle of steel as Templars reached for their swords.

"Hold," Cullen said sharply, waving a hand at his men. "Please lower your weapon, Sinead. We are not here to harm you."

"I heard about the Rite of Annulment," Sinead snapped. "I'm no fool, Knight-Captain. Meredith finally got her wish – rid Kirkwall of every mage. I warn you, I will not die easily."

"Listen to the man, lass," Fenton said gruffly. "You will not die at all. Meredith is dead."

Sinead paused. "That's not true."

"It is," Cullen said wearily. "Something…happened to her. It's hard to explain."

Sinead wavered for a moment, and then lowered her staff. "Was it the First Enchanter?"

"He's dead too," Fenton said bluntly. "Took himself out by accident. Became a huge tit of an abomination. The Champion killed 'em both in the end."

"Then…it's over?" Sinead was overcome with sadness, horror, despair, and relief. She leaned against her staff, threatening to fall over. Cullen ran up to her, steadying her.

"It's over," he soothed. "This part of it, at least. The damage is…it's terrible. Both of our numbers have been reduced significantly."

She shot him a hard look. "Numbers?"

Cullen paused. "Lives. Many  _lives_  were lost. Many more are injured. The city is in chaos. We've been searching for survivors."

"It's the damndest thing though," Fenton said. "Can't seem to find any of the children. We thought for sure they'd be in the great hall. Or maybe scattered about, hidden away in closets at best, slaughtered at worst. But we haven't found a one." He smiled at her, rubbing his thumb over his mustache. "You wouldn't happen to know where they are, would you?"

"Please say the children live," Cullen said, face tense.

Sinead stood up straight and gripped his arm. "They do." She held up her staff and shot a flare as high as she could.


	9. Recruitment

_Smell of charred flesh, blood on the hands, pooled around the body, power, one last look, one last hug, green eyes, gone, fallen, lost._

"Sinead."

She woke with a start, blinking, trying to clear the dream from her head. They came less frequently now – maybe once a month rather than every night like after the Annulment. Avery was kneeling next to her cot, her features barely visible in the predawn light.

She sat up, whispering "What's wrong?" She glanced over at the sleeping forms of the other women who shared the dormitory, but nothing seemed amiss. Then she noticed that Avery was fully dressed. And carrying a leather pack on her back. "Oh no. Not you, too. Please tell me you aren't running off to join the rebels."

Avery frowned sadly. "I knew you wouldn't like it. But I had to say good bye."

Sinead took hold of her arm. "They say the Templars are slaughtering every apostate they encounter on sight for fear of blood magic. Even with the phylacteries destroyed, do you think they won't know you?"

"But I'm not an apostate. I'm just Avery. See?" She waved her hand over her body. "No Circle robes, no staff. Just a healer traveling the land, helping whomever she finds."

"You do such good work here." Sinead dropped her hand to her lap. "There are so many people who need you." Her voice cracked.

"I can be useful elsewhere, too. I can be more than just a good worker. I can make a real difference." Avery hugged her. "I don't think I'll ever be like you, but I can try."

"I don't even know what that means." She pulled away and wiped her eyes quickly. "I can barely put together a poultice without you fixing it."

Avery shook her head with a small smile. "Good bye, Sinead. Stay safe."

Sinead nodded as Avery stood and walked out the door, giving her a wave before closing it with a quiet click. "You too," she whispered, twisting her blanket in her hands.

* * *

The aftermath of the Chantry's destruction and the Rite of Annulment was long and arduous. The first order of business was ending the riots on the streets, angry citizens seeking mob justice against any they thought to be mages. People who worked as apothecaries, healers, and poison-makers were most suspect. Also, like any time of unrest, the humans took the opportunity to attack the alienage, believing the elves guilty of hiding apostates in their midst. Led by newly appointed Knight-Commander Cullen, a faction of the Templars worked with the city guard to put things back in order.

Meanwhile, another faction helped gather the dead and the injured. The surgery of the Gallows was filled with a constant stream of people seeking aid for everything from lacerations and broken bones to critical injuries. Every mage that knew a bit of healing, was still alive, and had not fled was called upon to help. The number was woefully small for the amount of people needing care – five healers, including Avery and Sinead, working with little sleep for weeks before every case had been seen to and followed up on. So it was weeks before any knew the full list of the dead at the Gallows, and before a proper ceremony was arranged by the acting First Enchanter (a man who formerly taught the youngest children and who saw Orsino's change first-hand, a sight which left him a bit loopy).

The ceremony was brief. The bodies had long since been burned, and there were only a few dozen full mages left in the Gallows, and fewer of the Tranquil – even counted together, apprentices outnumbered adults now. They gathered in the great hall, Templars also in attendance out of respect, and the First Enchanter read the names of the dead off a scroll before throwing that scroll into a bowl of fire. A Chantry priest blessed it, said a small prayer, and it was done. It seemed too little to Sinead, considering all those who had passed to the Beyond. Norwin had been killed among his books. Her roommate was found in a storage closet with two others, all of them skewered. Ivy, the Tranquil who had first introduced her to Circle life, had died in the kitchens with all of the Tranquil kitchen staff. Then again, perhaps brevity was the best way, to help move forward with life's new reality.

And over the years, life did change. Cullen had given her the key to the Dangerous Antiquities room, granting her permission to move the censored collection back up to the library. But there was little time to return to her archivist duties – there were few healers left in Kirkwall for those outside Hightown, and the surgery was busy and understaffed. She found herself pulling more and more shifts with the healers until re-cataloging the library books became more of a hobby than an occupation. She did manage to finish it after a year of careful reordering and restructuring of Norwin's old methods, and all alone given that the rest of the archivists were either dead or rebels.

The mages were moved to a lower floor, and asked politely by Cullen to room in the dormitories. "I know it feels demeaning to the elders among you, but frankly I worry about everyone being spread about. If someone gets it in their mind to break in and take 'revenge' on the mages, I'll have no way to stop such an attack. And we can't lose any more of you." The mages weren't overly against this change. Everyone seemed to feel a little safer in groups. The mages also had more freedom to visit the city if they wished, provided that a Templar was free to escort them. However, the people's feelings towards mages were still bitter, and many of the mages felt safer behind the walls of the Gallows than on the streets of Kirkwall, escort or no.

Classes for apprentices were taught by any with free time, and Sinead's only constant duty in the library was that of tutor. Harrowings were completely suspended by order of the Knight-Commander given the experiences of the older apprentices – if they could survive a slaughter without turning to demons, perhaps they weren't a threat for possession.

When news came of the rebellion at the White Spire and the fall of the Circle of Magi, a number of mages snuck off in the night, heading for Andoral's reach. Knight-Commander Cullen's ranks were similarly thinned as Templars ran off to join the army created by the Seekers to bring the mages to heel.

With all this chaos, all the anger, Sinead was sure the world was falling apart. It felt like another Blight, one she could not hope to escape. Kirkwall was still in shambles, particularly in Lowtown - even three years after the attack on the Chantry many former buildings were still piles of rubble. And Meredith's awful statue still stood at the steps of the Gallows, a horrible thing that Sinead swore had a strange hum. None of the mages liked getting close to it.

And now Avery was gone, her last friend in this Void of a city.

* * *

She was in the library when the messenger came for her, hidden deep in the stacks and buried in a book. She heard the young Templar clanking around the shelves long before he reached her, but she was determined to not be called away today. But the Templar never gave up his search, and eventually she heard him say "Mistress Healer?" as he peeked around the corner to her nook.

She sighed and lowered her book. "Ser Maddson, I'm not a mistress. You're older than me, for Maker's sake. And I'm not a healer, either."

"Right. Sorry, mis-, uh, miss." Ser Maddson made a motion to salute, but stopped midway. "Um, the Knight-Commander asked me to fetch you. Says it's important."

"I just pulled two shifts at the surgery today." She looked back at her book. "Tell the Knight-Commander that I'll meet with him after I've had a bath and twelve hours' sleep."

Maddson shook his head. "Can't do it, miss. Knight-Commander says I have to insist, says it can't wait for any reason."

She closed her book and rubbed her eyes, defeated. "All right, then," she said, standing and adjusting the short, rough tunic she had taken to wearing with trousers since joining the healers – much easier to clean blood out of than the Circle robes. "Lead the way, Ser."

Her annoyance was stifled upon reaching Knight-Commander Cullen's office. He was standing at the window, hands resting on the pommel of his sword, staring at the bright, full face of Satina. The man looked as tired as she felt. Though he was still terribly good-looking for a Templar, he had aged in the last three years. Lines and dark circles framed his hazel eyes, and he carried around a cloak of sadness that showed through even when he smiled.

"Ah, Sinead." He smiled and motioned to a chair. "Would you like something to drink? I was given a bottle of Rowan's Rose recently and I can't think of a better time to open it."

She sat, peering at him, unsure. "I'll drink your wine, Knight-Commander, but I don't know what we would be celebrating."

"It's not so much a celebration as marking the start of something new." Cullen picked up a bottle and cracked its seal. "I'll tell you as soon as healer Avery arrives."

"She's gone." Her voice was cool. "Left this morning for Andoral's Reach."

Cullen paused, the bottle hovering over a glass. "I see. I had hoped…" He shook his head and poured two glasses, handing one to Sinead. "It can't be helped now. We will drink for her safety as well, then."

"Why are we drinking at all?"

Cullen leaned against his desk, turning the glass in his hands. "About a week ago I had a visit from Cassandra Pentaghast."

She straightened her back. "Cassandra Pentaghast?  _Right Hand of the Devine_  Cassandra Pentaghast?"

Cullen smiled. "The same. Believe me, I was as surprised as you to find her at my door. Usually when a Seeker comes to call on a Templar, it isn't good news. This time, however…you see, the Devine has decided to re-form the Inquisition. And the Right Hand has asked me to command whatever forces they manage to acquire."

"The Inquisition." Sinead rooted around her memory for anything she knew on the subject. "The Divine thinks things are so dire that she'd resurrect an order that was deemed unnecessary nearly nine hundred years ago? I admit, Ser, I'm still not sure what to drink to."

"Things are dire, it's true." Cullen's voice was firm. "But the reformation of the Inquisition means that there are people who will not let the world be torn asunder. If I can be a part of that, then I will gladly give them my sword."

Sinead studied his face, for the first time seeing a glimmer of something behind the eyes that she had never seen before, even long before the Annulment. She wondered if it was hope.

"The Right Hand asked me if there was any that I would trust to bring with me when I join. There were a number among my ranks, of course, but when she asked one of the first names to come to mind was yours." Sinead raised her brows as he continued. "I've come to know a number of mages in my time at the Gallows, and of those left there are some who are courteous and kind, some who work hard, some who know much of their chosen study. You are all of these things, as well as one who can think quickly in a demanding situation and who does not shy away from difficulty. I am sure the Inquisition could use people like you in its ranks."

Sinead was stunned for a moment. "I don't know what to say," she stammered. "I am honored that you thought of me, but I assure you your praise is too high-"

"It isn't praise. I'm not one for flattery." Cullen raised his glass. "As to what you should say, I recommend 'Yes, Knight-Commander, I would be glad to join an organization that aims to bring peace back to the world.' You will do so much good with them. I know you will."

Sinead thought of Avery, stealing away to try and make a difference. And she thought of the dark, quiet halls of the Gallows, lonely and filled with ghosts of bad memories. She lifted her glass. "Yes, Knight-Commander, I would be glad to join the Inquisition."

"Excellent." Cullen drank, and Sinead followed his lead. "Get a good night's sleep. We leave tomorrow."

* * *

Sinead stood on the docks as Templars moved around her, loading a small ship with armor, weapons and staples. Or former Templars, she corrected herself. All those who decided to join the Inquisition under Cullen's command had also agreed to break from the order. Her pack and her staff strapped to her back, her mother's pins holding her braid firmly in place, she was ready to board. But she couldn't quite bring herself to walk up the gangplank. Kirkwall had been her home for ten years, through times of happiness and discovery and times of horror and despair. She suddenly felt as if she were abandoning it.

"Ho, lass. Glad I caught you before you flitted off." She turned to find Ser Fenton walking towards her with his easy gate. "Are you ready to leave this shithole at last?"

"I'm not sure." She glanced at the port warehouses, still scarred from debris that fell from the ruined chantry. "The Knight-Comman – sorry, Commander said that he thought I could do good with the Inquisition, but couldn't I do just as much good here?"

Fenton gave a hearty laugh. "Girl, Kirkwall will be fine without you. We've got healers still, and with any luck some of the apprentices Avery's been training will make out well. This Inquisition is still new – still growing. And it isn't based in a town that smells like piss on a good day." He knocked her shoulder.

Sinead rubbed her shoulder and smiled gratefully. "You sure you won't come with? I think more than one recruit could use you beating their heads in."

"Someone has to keep watch over the mages, don't they? You know that Fereldon's sending us another shipment of apprentices? Seems a few apostates thought younger recruits would be malleable to their cause." Fenton shook his head. "I'm practically running a ruddy boarding school at this point."

Hesitantly, Sinead wrapped her arms around the Templar's torso. "I'll miss you, Knight-Commander."

"Aw, lass." Fenton hugged her. "Go off and have an adventure. That's what young people are supposed to do."

She pulled away, reassured and more confident in her decision to leave. She boarded the boat, watching the bustle of the crew with a growing excitement. And as the ship left port, she waved to the shrinking image of Knight-Commander Fenton until he disappeared over the horizon.


	10. Haven

The screams were hideous and continuous. They rose from the length of tenting hastily constructed after the Temple of Sacred Ashes exploded in a flash of green fire. Sinead ran where she was called as master alchemist Adan directed anyone with training and free hands to the most critical survivors. The burns were unlike anything she had encountered before – they still burned with power, and no cooling spell could put them out. One had to dispel the burns of the arcane magic before treating them, and to do that without succumbing to exhaustion took concentration.

There was little time to think, however. As the jagged rip in the veil that hovered over the temple grew, so did the burns on the survivors. Sinead moved from victim to victim, removing the strange, fade-touched energy as quickly as she could before moving on, letting another healer take over to treat the wounds. As fast as she and the other dispellers moved, the wounds of the injured moved in faster for the kill. More than two thirds of the victims passed over to the Beyond within a day.

Just as the last of the Conclave survivors were being treated, another wave of patients came down from the temple - Cullen's soldiers and Leliana's scouts, suffering all sorts of battle wounds.

"Andraste's tits, it's a war up there," one woman gasped as Sinead worked to close the lacerations scratched into her back and chest. "Demons are pouring out of these... _splits_  in the veil. Like doors made in the side of a wall with an axe, they are. Three of 'em took out half of my squad before we could move to cut 'em down!"

Sinead was on her feet for two days, sleeping once in her cloak at the edge of a tent and eating whatever quick snack of bread or cheese or dried meat that a young cookboy handed to her on the run.

Finally the rush ended. A scout seeking aid for an arm nearly twisted off his torso claimed that a woman marked by Andraste herself had stopped the hole in the sky from growing. Sinead allowed the man to babble, assuming that shock had addled him. But then a unit of soldiers came carrying a stretcher down the mountain pass with a deep reverence. Sinead thought it was the body of the missing Divine, but the woman on the stretcher was clearly too young. And her left hand was glowing. She was sequestered from all but Adan, reluctant leader of the scrappy crew of healers that had been gathered at Haven by the Inquisition.

Two days later, Sinead was set to the task of ripping old clothes for medical rags with healer Edith, a slight young woman without a lick of magic but with gentle hands and an encyclopedic knowledge of herbs. She was good at her job, but Sinead could not help but find her perky demeanor grating.

"They're calling her the Herald of Andraste." Edith picked up a piece of old yellow plaid and gave it a firm tug, splitting it in two. "I heard from one of the burn victims that she saw the Herald come out of the fade, the glowing form of Andraste so bright behind her that she had to hide her eyes."

"If she hid her eyes, how did she see Andraste?" Sinead wound rags together in a neat roll. "I don't know, Edith. If Andraste was there, why didn't she send someone to keep the breach from being made in the first place?"

"Maybe she did! Maybe the Herald tried to stop…whatever happened, and just, ah." Edith paused.

"Failed?" Sinead shook her head. "Not much of a Herald then, if she needed Andraste to swoop in and save her during her first mission."

Edith tsked. "So cynical. Why wouldn't Andraste send someone to help us in our time of need? She has done so before."

Sinead tired of the debate. "Perhaps she has. There." She stacked their new rolls of rags in a small chest. "I think we're due dinner and sleep, don't you think?"

As they walked the muddy path from the medical tents to Haven's gate, a cry went up inside the town.

"The Herald awakens! She awakens!"

Edith shot a delighted look at Sinead and ran toward the gate. Sinead grumbled as she followed, her aching feet not appreciating the movement. A crowd had gathered outside the hut the woman called Herald was assigned. As Edith pushed to the front with Sinead following, the woman emerged. There was a ripple of whispers through the crowd, murmurs of "Herald." Sinead couldn't help but notice how bewildered the woman was. She walked forward a few steps, and the crowd split for her.

"She's Dalish," Edith breathed. "No one told me she was Dalish."

"An odd choice for a Herald," Sinead muttered.

The woman walked on, toward the Chantry, toward the leaders of the Inquisition who beckoned to her. The crowd followed. Sinead was still, letting the people stream around her, then pulled the hood to her cloak up and walked to the hut that she shared with three other women. Right now, she needed sleep far more than she needed Andraste or her supposed Herald.

* * *

She did not regret joining the Inquisition. Even in the first few months, when it was nothing but mud and tents and suspicious looks from soldiers and pitching in help for any duty, it felt marvelous to be out in the world again among trees and grass and rivers and lakes. And when the Inquisition took over Haven, rebuilding the old cultist village into a small outpost, she began to feel hope for the future. That hope grew when the Conclave was called, and mages and Templars from all corners of Thedas arrived to argue before the Divine.

But then the sky tore open. Rifts in the veil popped like seems in a worn shirt. And an unknown woman, a mage from a Free Marshes Dalish clan joined the inner circle of the Inquisition because she was the only one who could close the rifts, and she was called Herald. The whole thing made Sinead's head ache. Suddenly she realized how tired she was. How little time there was for reading, or really how little material the tiny village had to read. The Chantry had a small library, but it was made up of devotionals and copies of the Chant.

Edith was the only person who spoke to her beyond her daily duties (aside from the occasional respectful nod and small talk from Cullen). She did not mind this so much before the sky was sundered. Everyone's first questions were always "Where are you from?" or "I heard you saw Kirkwall's Circle fall. What was that like?" and the panic would come and take away her words. Her short, clipped answers never seemed to please them, and it was a relief when they labeled her surly and left her be. But now the old creep of loneliness filled her, and there wasn't enough to read to keep it at bay.

At first, when she had the time, she tried her hand at writing to chase away the solitude. "If I have nothing to read, then I'll make something instead," she muttered. She gathered up paper, an ink well, and a quill, and she sat in the back of the Singing Maiden and scribbled out whatever came to mind.

Unfortunately, she was terrible at fiction. Her writing was filled with long, dull descriptions of the inner workings of a fake world, clipped, choppy dialog that did not sound like what people actually said and plots that she could not figure out how to join together. And frustratingly, everyone sounded exactly the same. Reading over her drafts, she realized she was missing something about storytelling – some sort of essential ingredient. She was a reader, not a writer, someone who put together puzzles with text, not someone who created the puzzle pieces.

At first it hurt to know there was a skill she had no hope of learning, like when she realized that she had no eye for sketching or talent for gardening beyond pulling weeds. Then she felt ridiculous – she lived in a world where the sky was literally falling. Her lack of talent in one field was not something to mourn. So in order to regain a little sanity, she went back to her old expertise. She pulled out the book Norwin had given her long ago, cracked it open, and started making notes of her observations of the text, reading it as if it were the first time.

One evening in the Maiden, as she was pondering the connections between the story she was reading and an old Tevinter book on the origin of the world she had read while researching her thesis, a mid-aged elf pulled up a stool at her table. She had seen him around Haven, heard talk of him, though she forgot his name – a mage who helped the Herald understand her mark, assumed to be from a city due to his unmarked face, and completely bald. Not even a fringe around the skull as a reminder of what had once been. She found it unnerving, like someone who shared too much information about their upset stomach.

"Hello to you," the elf said, leaning his staff against the wall. "I'm Solas. I hope I'm not intruding on your studies, miss…"

"Sinead." She set down her quill and closed her book. "And no worries. I should probably eat my stew before it goes completely cold." She picked up a bowl at the far end of the table and stirred the mess within to break up the already congealing fat.

"I have seen you about the village. You're one of the healers?"

"If you have questions about the surgery, I'm not the one to ask, I'm afraid." She took a bite of stew. "Mother Giselle is lead healer now, and though she's still settling in –"

"I have no questions about the surgery. My question is of an academic nature." He picked up the book and flipped through its pages. "I've seen you carry around this book, and thought it nothing but a trifle. A copy of the Chant, perhaps, or an herbal – both common reading materials for a healer. But then I caught sight of this." He brushed his fingers over the embossed wolf on the cover. "This is no herbal, and it's certainly not the Chant of Light. I wouldn't expect a healer in training to be carrying such a treasure. Where did you find it?"

Sinead avoided the question. Norwin had become yet another name her tongue refused to say, and simply saying 'I took it from the Gallows's library' left too much that needed explanation. Instead she said, "You know First Enchanter Ovidius's  _Fifteen Dreams of Elvhenan_? I thought most copies were long since forgotten or lost given its lack of academic appeal."

"You are not wrong. A copy of a copy of a translation of an old Tevinter vanity publication based on the dreams of an unnamed slave?" Solas turned the book around in his hands, smiling. "I can understand why it's been deemed too unimportant to save shelf space for. Tell me, do you believe the elven slave's dreams are based on actual old tales of the Elvhen?"

Sinead finished off her stew and shrugged. "I don't see why not. If you read closely, you can see how much they resemble Dalish tales in structure, though the stories of the gods are quite different." She thought for a moment. "The true question is whether he experienced true memories in the Fade, or if he simply told Ovidius old tales passed down to him as a child. If the latter, then it's a direct connection to the Elvhen. If the former, then the stories may not be 'true' in a historical sense, but they may be true in emotion."

"You forgot the third and fourth possibilities." Solas tapped the cover with a long finger. "That he made it all up to please his master. Or that Ovidius did to please his readers."

"I didn't forget. I didn't mention them," she said, waving a hand in dismissal, "because those possibilities are boring."

Solas let out a small, breathy laugh. He tapped the book again. "Are you interested in the Fade, Sinead? Of the knowledge one can gain from studying it?"

Sinead leaned back in surprise at the question. Not many mages she knew openly discussed the Fade as a place to study. She paused before answering. "I…know many people fear it, but I admit that I don't. I've been there lucidly a few times, and while the last visit ended poorly, for the most part I found it a fascinating place. Everything a reflection of reality, but  _more_. The way the sky never settles, the way light seems to come from everywhere at once. It's beautiful, in its way."

"Then can I offer you an exchange?" He placed a hand on the book. "There is little to read in this village, and I would like something to distract myself during my waking, idle hours. When I sleep, there is no idleness, for I am a Dreamer. The Fade, for me, is a place to explore, a place of discovery. If you let me borrow your book, I'd be happy to share some of the things I've witnessed in the Fade."

Sinead's fear that Solas would ask to borrow her only means of diversion was instantly replaced by the anticipation of hearing tales of the Fade from a Dreamer. "Would you let me take notes?" she asked eagerly. "The Fade is so rarely explored by those in the Circle – that is, former Circle. It's considered the realm of demons. If I could take notes –"

"What will you do, publish a tract on Dreaming? Convince the Circle mages not to fear the unknown?" Solas cocked a brow. "Take notes if you wish, but I fear you'll gain nothing from it but your own enjoyment."

"That's good enough for me."

"Very well, then. The deal is set."

Solas took the book and the two began meeting a couple times a week at the tavern, Solas patiently answering Sinead's many questions on the Fade before launching into long, detailed stories of what he witnessed while Dreaming.

* * *

It had been only a few months since the woman called the Herald of Andraste joined their ranks, but the mood of the Inquisition had changed. Mother Giselle, acquired as an agent by the Herald, was a blessing after months of Adan's surly and reluctant leadership of the healers. She was kind, attentive, but also firm enough to demand space in the Chantry for the infirm. They no longer worked in tents, no longer had to worry about exposing the ill to the elements.

Supplies also became more regular. There was talk of the Herald's clearing up of the mess that was the Hinterlands, still mired in the remnants of the Templar/Mage War, of her seeking out bandits along the Storm Coast. She was also gaining interesting allies – a Grey Warden, one of the few who had not gone missing. Lady Vivienne, de facto leader of the Circle loyalists (Sinead made a point of avoiding her lest she catch the grand woman's attention and end up drawn into an interview she did not want). An elven woman with a terrible haircut (practically a girl, Sinead thought) who made the Singing Maiden her personal outpost and now and then received little notes from the stable boys and the kitchen girls. A qunari mercenary leader who did not have the demeanor of the qunari she had seen in Kirkwall. This one was overweight, drank heavily, and more than one of the healers, male and female, was seen leaving his tent at dawn.

Sinead found the whole experience strange, like she had become a member of a rowdy carnival. But it was not unpleasant – the different faces, the better food, the  _hope_  that people had, all of it held back her worst fears. Fears that the world was nearing its last days, that the Beyond waited for them all. And when the Herald recruited the rebel mages to the Inquisition, her fears were stifled completely. For all intents and purposes, the mage rebellion was finished and the mages had found a suitable victory.

Sinead searched the tents where the mages camped, looking for familiar faces – specifically, Avery's face. But she was nowhere to be found. She asked around, but no mage had heard of a healer by that name. Then again, the rebel mages treated her with a good degree of suspicion. If she was with the Inquisition so early, was she not a Chantry-loving loyalist?

Finally she gathered the courage to ask the Grand Enchanter herself, but Fiona was just as unhelpful. "There are many mages by that name," she said. "But I can't think of any that match that description. I am sorry. If I hear word of her, I promise to send it on to you, healer Sinead."

* * *

It was a time of celebration. Music, drink, singing, bonfires, dancing – the village was aflame with joy for the breach had been closed. The Herald had achieved the impossible. Sinead walked the village with a mug of strong mulled wine, winding through revelers as they pursued their most hedonistic desires – why hold back now that the world was safe from ruin? Her heart was glad, but she felt at a loss as to how to show it.

"Are you enjoying yourself, healer Sinead?" Solas walked up to her and kept her slow pace. "You look to be deep in thought when you should be joining the other young people." He waved to a group of young carousers flinging themselves around a bonfire erratically to the music of drum and lute and flute and reed.

"I would not mind dancing," she said, almost to herself. "But the only dance I know is a strange Orlesian court thing that Avery showed me. She said every young noble must learn it, and she always complained that she never had the chance to show her skill at a proper ball." She glanced to another bonfire, where people were singing old folksongs. "I suppose I could join a song," she said. "But that would mean singing in front of other people, and the very thought gives me jitters."

They passed a couple kissing heatedly between two huts. "There are other pastimes besides singing and dancing," Solas said archly.

Sinead laughed and blushed a deep red. "I – that is, I'm not –"

"Not a comment meant to fluster." Solas nodded to her as they reached the steps of the Chantry. "The young are meant to be young. Go be young tonight, healer, wherever that leads you." He left her, joining the Inquisition advisers.

She walked on, now determined to join the revelry. She stopped in front of the bonfire of dancers and took a breath.

The warning bell rang, a clangor that broke the happy mood. Music came to an abrupt halt, dancers broke apart, and songs petered out. "Look!" someone cried, pointing at the mountains. The winking, flickering flames of hundreds of torches blanketed the range. A cry went up, a call to arms. Fiona broke from the group of singers and bellowed for her mages. Any soldier who was not on duty ran for the gates to gather their gear. Everyone else ran for their huts, their stores, the Singing Maiden, the Chantry, anywhere with four solid walls.

Sinead was frozen, her mind spinning. It clicked in place after a moment, as people streamed around her:  _time to run again_. A hand grabbed her arm.

"Sinead, to the Chantry!" Mother Gizelle turned her around. "We will soon be overrun by the injured. We need every hand!"

"We also need supplies," Sinead said quickly. "Adan has far more in storage than the Chantry. I'll be right back!" She shook loose of the Mother, ignoring her calls, and ran for the apothecary's hut. Halfway there she took a detour, wound around the tavern and into her hut. She grabbed her staff from where it was propped against the wall, then opened a small chest at the end of her bedroll and pulled out her pack, hugging it and sighing with relief. Then she realized her copy of  _Fifteen Dreams_  was not in the pack – Solas had not yet returned it.

"Maker damn it all," she said, throwing the pack over her shoulders, running from the hut and right into Edith. They tumbled to the ground, rolling over each other. Sinead pushed Edith off her. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard you tell Mother Gizelle you were getting more supplies," Edith said, her voice shaky. "I followed you, but then you didn't go to Adan's and – is that your pack? Did you run away from the holy Mother for your  _pack_?"

The women looked to the mountain as a deep rumble echoed over the valley. An avalanche brought on by a trebuchet poured down the side of the mountain, smothering the torchlight.

"I have time to get my things and get supplies," Sinead said shortly, jumping to her feet and jogging toward the apothecary. "The army seems to have things under contr-" There was a roar. Sinead skidded to a halt, her breath stilled as a massive dragon swooped down just outside the village wall.

"We need to get the supplies! Now!"

She took off at a sprint, Edith following behind while loudly repeating lines from the Chant. The dragon rose and roared, spewing forth a burst of red that engulfed a nearby hut. Sinead threw a barrier around them both as the hut exploded, raining burning debris around them and catching a few more huts on fire. They stumbled over the rubble, Edith screaming over and over again. Sinead slapped her, took her hand and forced her to keep running. There was still screaming all around them, villagers trapped beneath the burning debris of their homes.

"There are people in the huts!" Edith screamed. "There are people!"

"I know," Sinead panted. "And Maker knows I'd help if I could." She slid to a halt in front of the apothecary.

"Why can't we help them?" Edith pulled away from her. "You saved your  _pack_  but you won't help save the people? Andraste's flames, the others are right. You are mad." She turned to run back for the burning huts.

Sinead yanked on her arm hard, turning her around. "I know the power of flames," she said angrily. "And I know how far my power can go. I could protect myself and pull one or two from such a fire, heal some of their burns so they could survive their injuries and run for the Chantry." She gave Edith a hard look. "But now I have to protect _you_."

Edith went pale, and Sinead immediately regretted her words. What she said was true, but it did not make it any less awful, and the girl did not need such a reprimand now. She threw open the door to the apothecary, which was still untouched by fire, and found Adan tossing goods into a chest.

"Damn it all, did they send no one but two thin-limbed girls?" the alchemist growled as he worked. "Useless!"

Sinead ignored him, picking up a canvas sack and sweeping potions into it. She handed it to the silent and pale Edith, and filled another sack.

"Leave the chest, Adan, we don't have the time." She took him by the sleeve. "There's a Maker damned dragon out there spitting fire."

"Leave me be girl." He shook her off. "I have a cart to pack. Get to the Chantry for Maker's sake!"

Sinead hesitated only a moment before nodding, gathering up the pack and pulling Edith from the hut.

"Oh, Maker, he's going to die," Edith whispered as Sinead pulled her into a run up the path. "He's going to die."

There was a screech, a high pitched squeal ahead of them that made Sinead's heart stop. She had heard that sound before, ran from it, was forced to fight the creatures that made it.

 _It can't be darkspawn. It's impossible_.

She pulled Edith around the back of the last hut before the clearing in front of the Chantry, peeking around it at the yard where the Quartermaster's tents were set. Soldiers fought horrible creatures there, grey, armored creatures with giant red crystal growths growing out from their bodies and shining red veins branching over their skin. The Herald was there, her staff aglow with power as she fought alongside the soldiers.

"Maker, they are demons," Edith whimpered. "Abominations."

"No, they feel wrong," Sinead said, her stomach roiling. "Even abominations aren't so twisted."

One of the red things caught sight of them – an ugly, helmeted thing, hunched with spiked red crystals for arms. It broke from its comrades, running for them, shrieking and pointing an arm at them. Sinead increased the barrier and pushed Edith back with her as three long crystals shot past her, burying in the ground to her right.

"Maker save us please, please save us, please Maker," Edith repeated frantically as the thing closed in on them.

Sinead squared her stance, dropped the sack, raised her staff, building up her power as quickly as she could, staring down the thing. Its eyes were rabid. Just as it reached her, pulled back its arm to strike, just as she readied the fire to consume the thing, a young man appeared from nowhere in a flash of steel, old leathers, wide hat and lanky arms and legs. He ran, leaped, and plunged two daggers into the thing's back. It screamed and stumbled back as he wrapped his legs around its torso, pulled his daggers free, then jammed one in its neck and used the other to slice its throat open.

The creature fell, and the young man rolled free of its corpse, crouching with daggers held before him, ready to strike again if necessary. There was something about him, a glint around the edges that felt familiar to her.

He looked up at Sinead. "Run."

She did not need to be told twice. She picked up the sack, took Edith by the hand, and ran as fast and hard as she could for the Chantry door. The battle on the lawn was nearly finished, one or two of the creatures left. They ran into the Chantry followed by the last of the surviving villagers and soldiers. The doors slammed shut, and Mother Giselle left the side of the injured to greet them.

"That was a foolish thing to do," she said, eyeing Sinead's pack and staff. "If we survive, we will talk of this. Go now to the others. We have many injured."

Sinead nodded, dragging the whimpering Edith after her. Edith pulled her hand from Sinead's grasp and slapped her hand away. "Don't touch me!" she said, backing away from Sinead like she was a snake readying to strike. She took the sack of supplies roughly from Sinead and ran off to the other healers.

Mother Giselle frowned. "Tell me what happened."

Before she could reply, Cullen called out "Everyone, prepare to move! The Herald has agreed to serve as a diversion as we follow Chancellor Roderick to safety through the tunnels beneath the Chantry. We must not let her sacrifice be in vain!"

"Quickly." Mother Giselle took her arm and led her to the injured. "Heal as many injured legs as you can and heal as they walk. May the Maker protect us. This will be a long night."


	11. Skyhold

Mother Giselle turned the word game around in her hands before handing it back to Sinead. They sat on bedrolls beneath a tent near the infirm, alone as the other healers had been given tasks around the ramshackle camp.

"You risked your life for a game?" Mother Giselle's frown was deep with concern. "From what I know of you, that is not usual behavior."

"It's nearly all I own, Mother. I couldn't let it burn." Sinead gripped her staff which lay across her lap, her knuckles white. She stared at her hands, unseeing.

"You think no one else here lost all they own yesterday?" The Mother shook her head, her voice quiet but firm. "You ran into fire for a toy that could be found in any market. And Edith was also imperiled by your action."

Sinead's anger flared. "I didn't ask her to follow me," she snapped. "And it isn't any toy.  _I couldn't let it burn_."

"Edith has heard things about you. She is young. She wanted to help a woman she admires." The Mother took her chin and gently lifted her head so that Sinead's eyes met hers. "When there are those under you who see you as someone to follow, you have a responsibility not to act rashly." Giselle moved her hand to Sinead's cheek. "Your life is more important than an object, even one you treasure."

Sinead leaned away from the Mother's hand. "I was fine," she said resolutely. "I was always fine. Edith was fine. And I still had time to get the supplies. Everything was fine. It was all fine."

"It was not fine." Giselle's voice became steel. "Edith weeps and tells no one of what happened. All she told me was that your pack was more important than people. What does that mean?"

Sinead shook. Panic filled her chest. Before it caught her tongue, she managed to say mechanically, "There were people burning. In the collapsed huts. I knew I couldn't…we couldn't." Then the words refused to come. She squeezed her eyes shut.  _Don't think of druffalos, don't think of druffalos, don't think of druffalos_.

"I see." Giselle placed her hand over one of Sinead's tightened fists. "She is young. She does not yet know that we cannot save everyone."

The panic grew, threatening to drown her. She felt sick.  _Don't think of druffalos, don't think of druffalos, don't think of druffalos, don't think of druffalos_.

"Mother, I need your help." Cullen called across the camp, the Herald propped between him and Lady Cassandra, dragging her feet like lead weights. "The Herald needs aid."

"The Herald lives? Thank the Maker." Giselle rose to her feet.

Sinead jumped up. "I'll help," she choked.

"You will not." The Mother held her palm up. "You will rest. You will consider your actions. You will awaken tomorrow and continue on."

Sinead nodded and lowered back to the bedroll.

"Good." Mother Giselle walked quickly to the Herald, helping Cullen and Cassandra lay her down on a bedroll among the other infirm.

Sinead dropped her staff and curled up in a ball beneath her cloak. She still felt sick, still could not fill her head with druffalos. The screams of those she left for dead drowned out their soothing nickers. She squeezed her eyes shut, thinking of the soft winds of the Brecilian forest, the deep green of the foliage, the trickling streams and the thick smell of growing. Her breathing slowed, and exhaustion took her.

* * *

_Fire and screams, blood on the hands, on the face, power in the hands, life taken, green eyes filled with shock, cannot keep the blood from flowing, the power from flowing, fire burning too hot to scream._

Sinead shot up, her breathing hard and fast. The camp was quiet, save for the Inquisition leaders arguing between themselves. She felt like running, felt like she had to escape. Grabbing her staff, she jumped up and walked through the camp, around the sleeping brontos, and out into the open plain of snow. She waded until the snow reached passed her boots, stopped and leaned against her staff. The wind was cold and stinging, and numbed her cheeks.

A song rose up from the camp – Mother Giselle's voice singing the first lines of The Dawn Will Come. Soon others joined in, the refrain echoing around the walls of the mountains.

"But what if it doesn't?" she whispered into the wind. "What if the darkness swallows us whole?"

Suddenly, a memory came to her.

_She was young, perhaps seven, and she had burned a piece of bread that she had wished to be toasted. It frightened her, the way she merely thought of how nice toast would be only for the slice to be consumed by bright flames. She sobbed, holding the charred toast, afraid to drop it lest it scatter magic everywhere._

_Her mother saw everything, and though at first she was still and shocked, she shook herself and gathered Sinead into her arms, brushing her fingers through her hair._

_"_ _I burnt the toast, mama," Sinead cried. "I ruined it. I didn't mean to, I promise."_

_"_ _I know, my darling," Glidda soothed. "It was a small accident."_

_"_ _But what if it's bigger? What if I burn the house down? What if I burn you?" She lowered her voice. "I'm dangerous."_

_Glidda took Sinead's hand and turned it palm up. "Your hands aren't any more dangerous than anyone else's," she said. "Hold a knife wrong, and you'll cut a finger. Forget to unclog the chimney, and you'll smother. Hit a man wrong, and you can knock him dead. You can't be afraid of your power, love. That's far more dangerous than accidentally burning toast." She hugged Sinead, held her close. "Think of druffalos when you think your magic's scary. You ever see a druffalo scared of anything? They'll stare down a wolf, stomp it down, then go back to munching on grass. Solid as a rock, is druffalos." Glidda laughed a little then. "Or don't think of them. It's always hardest to not think of the one thing you try not to think of, isn't it, love?"_

Sinead blinked. It was as if she was waking from a daze. She was cold, far colder than she should be for standing in the snow a few minutes. As she turned to walk back to camp, she realized that there was another path cutting through the snow – one that stopped next to her.

* * *

The Herald recovered quickly from her jaunt through blinding snow. She rallied the camp the next day, and led them north through the mountain, cheerfully encouraging everyone and telling them that safety was just over the next horizon.

Sinead trudged along with the camp, her own pack and a pack of supplies over her back. She was silent as she walked, avoiding the hopeful chatter of the other healers. Not that they had any desire to speak to her.

For three days they walked with no sign of the Herald's sanctuary. Then mid-afternoon on the fourth day, they crested a hill and in the distance a massive fortress appeared, as if hewed from the stone. It was an awesome sight, one that took Sinead's breath away – towers that stretched to the sky, a bridge that spanned the distance between two peaks, and thick walls framing an immense keep.

The Herald called it 'Skyhold', and Sinead felt the name was right. The sky was unchecked here, not even the mountain peaks blocking it from view. And when they crossed over its threshold, she felt a thinness in the veil, the Fade pressing against reality. But it was not unpleasant or threatening, like the thinner spots around Kirkwall. Here, there was a peace to it, as if the Fade itself protected the place from danger. Though she was exhausted, her sleep disturbed by dreams, and though she was kept running to prep the healing tents and supplies, the strength that Skyhold exuded calmed the worst of her panic.

When the Herald was officially named Inquisitor, she cheered with the rest of the Inquisition members. This formerly unknown elf deserved the title, she decided. Who else but a woman who ran around Thedas solving problems big and little, who stared down the twisted creature that attacked Haven and seemingly came back from the dead, should lead this new movement? Better her than someone who demanded a title based on nobility or some other stupid bloodright.

And so she settled in, letting her hope spark. The breach was still closed. Whatever that thing that attacked Haven was, it had failed at its plan. The Inquisition survived and continued to grow, people coming from all over to join the assembly that aimed to stabilize the world.

One day she was cataloguing potions when a messenger tapped her on the shoulder and stood at attention. "Mistress healer, the Lady Josephine has requested your presence."

"I – what?" Sinead set down her board and parchment. None of the Inquisition advisers had called her for an audience before. Even Cullen, whom she knew, was more a walk up for small talk type. "Did she say what I was needed for?"

"Dunno, Mistress, I was just told to fetch you," the messenger said, shrugging. "Mother Giselle already knows, so you can come with me immediately."

Sinead picked up her staff, bemused, and followed the messenger up the hill and the massive entry stairs of the Skyhold keep. Sinead stared up and up at the ceiling as they walked through the great hall, footsteps echoing off the walls. She stumbled over a loose brick, the messenger catching her and righting her as they reached a warped wooden door.

Lady Josephine Montilyet waited there, looking coiffed and composed in gold and indigo, golden chain heavy on her shoulders, clipboard in hand. Sinead rubbed a hand over her rough, stained, patched tunic. She had a small stipend for clothing, but she never did have time to replace what she had brought from the Gallows. The messenger saluted Josephine and ran off to some other duty. Josephine eyed her critically, which made Sinead want to sink into the floor. She had never been so analyzed by someone so close to her in age – as if taking her apart to see what exactly made her gears run.

"I am sure you are wondering why I called for you, healer Sinead," Josephine said crisply, but not unkindly. "Is it true that you were an archivist at the Kirkwall Circle?"

"I was," Sinead said, her heart sinking. Often after such a question came a run of inquiries about the Circle's fall. Perhaps the Inquisition hoped to learn something about the beginnings of the Mage rebellion from a witness – though if that were the case, why not pester Fiona?

"That's fantastic," Josephine said, leading her through the warped wooden door into a round tower room and up a set of stairs. "You see, we have a number of healers in our ranks now, but we are severely lacking in archivists. You happen to be the only one at present, in fact. Archivists aren't known for wishing to leave their libraries, as well you know, and it will take effort to convince people to join us, as well as a library that is worth the move. That leaves us in quite a quandary, for you see," she spread her arms as they reached the second floor; "we are in quite a disarray."

Sinead stared at what the room contained – water-stained shelving, twisted and molding, holding books in various levels of condition. Some had shining bindings, untouched by time. Others were bloated with water damage or cracking at the spine, or had flaking pages. But the library was sizable, certainly big enough to contain a serious collection. She let out a breath, delight tingling through her limbs.

"There is another, smaller library close to the kitchens," Josephine continued. "The books are less damaged, but the confusion is the same. Whoever last made their home here cared not how they arranged their literature."

Sinead reached out and picked up one of the cracked books, carefully opening it and flipping through its pages. It was a volume on dwarven architecture, complete with diagrams. Salvageable, but only just. She closed it gently. "What do you need me to do?"

Josephine smiled. "The Inquisition must become a center of knowledge, a place where people come for answers. A research library, one to rival the best universities, is necessary for such a status. We also need a collection that will amuse visiting dignitaries – there is nothing more damning than a critical nobleman labeling a diplomatic visit as  _dull_. Diversion is a must." She glanced at her clipboard, checking off notes with her quill. "We must catalog what we have, and create a list of what we should have so that we can begin acquiring resources immediately. And, unfortunately, if you agree to the task you will have to work alone. Every hand is needed for other tasks at the moment."

"That's fine," Sinead said, running her hand over a shelf. "The last few years at Kirkwall I was alone."

"Excellent. As you work, the carpenters will update the shelving, the light fixtures, the work tables, and so on." She handed Sinead a checklist. "You have a week."

Sinead started. "A  _week_? But my duties -"

"Are now to prepare the Skyhold library," Josephine cut in. "Mother Giselle and I have already discussed it. Until the task is complete, you are under my charge. The library cannot be left in this state if we are to present ourselves well." She grinned. "Cullen spoke highly of you when I asked about your experience. I have every trust that you are capable of the task."

"I suppose I am," Sinead said faintly. "I mean. I am an archivist, it's just been a while, I –"

"Then I should let you work," Josephine said, turning to go. "I don't want to distract you. Good luck!"

Sinead watched her go, mouth open in astonishment. Then she turned to the books, glee spilling over into a smile. She ran down the stairs to fetch a quill and paper from whoever would loan her some.

* * *

The task was arduous. No, that was not the right word, Sinead supposed. Healing the survivors of the Temple of Sacred Ashes was arduous. Sorting through the books in the library was merely demanding. After the first day, she had a simple system of keep, keep and repair, and discard, making sure to write down the name of every book and its status. She tossed the discarded books over the railing until Solas asked her politely to stop.

"I've decided to make the lowest level my office," he said. "It's difficult to set up my things when rotten books are raining down from above."

She would work late into the night, sleep fitfully in the dormitory the healers had claimed (her nightmares giving her no rest), then wake early, eat quickly and continue on her task. She worked around the carpenters as they pried old shelving off the stone walls and shouted at each other over the shush of their saws. Once she had to tell them off for knocking a pile of repairable books askew, sending loose pages flying. Within a few days, the main collection was fully cataloged and awaited classification and shelving or repair.

She saved the lower library for last, excited to see what this less damaged collection held. She walked down the stairs with a number of lamps, mug of tea, a cheese sandwich, and a clipboard, determined to make a sizeable dent in her workload.

The lower level of Skyhold was blissfully silent, the banging of repairs and low din of people muffled by stone walls. The library, however, was less blissful, books, shelves, and desk covered in layers of dust and cobwebs. She ran to the kitchens and begged for a broom and a few rags then ran back and attacked the cobwebs. Gray clouds of dust filled the air, instigating a sneezing fit. When the cobwebs were cleared enough to see the titles of the tombs, she stopped for a quick break to eat her sandwich and sip at the tea that had gone cold.

She yawned through mouthfuls of cheese and bread. The silence and the stillness of the lower library were soporific. It did not help that her nights were less than restful. It took many cups of tea to keep her going through the day.

 _I should have gulped the tea down_ , she thought as she felt her eyes grow heavy. She leaned against a shelf and closed her eyes.  _I do need the sleep. A quick nap and then back to_  –

_Blood and screaming and fire and the dead melting in the heat of her flames._

She jerked awake, gasping for breath, then immediately jerked back, banging her head on the shelf behind her. A young man was crouched in front of her, the young man that killed the horrible gray monster in Haven. He was still and silent, his gray eyes following her movement as she held her injured head. In the lamplight she could now see how ragged he appeared – his clothes were assembled from scraps of scraps, his hat was cobbled together from a thick, weathered brim and an old steel helmet, his light blond hair was lank and unwashed. His face was emotionless, his lips resting in a slight frown. And again, she noticed a glow about him, green but barely there, like a trick of the light.

"Your dreams are getting louder," he said matter of factly.

She blinked and opened her mouth to reply when someone at the library entrance called out, "Hello? You all right in there?" She glanced toward the door, then back at the man, but he was gone.

She jumped up to her feet, shocked. "Andraste's flaming arse," she stuttered.

A dwarf appeared around the corner, blond, with slight stubble and a red tunic splayed open at the chest. "I heard someone screaming out 'no', and that's usually not a good sign, but you can't be in too much trouble if you're talking flaming asses. You okay, Dusty?"

Sinead turned in a circle, looking around the room, then walked a few steps and looked out to the hallway. "I – I was dreaming, and – Dusty?" She looked down at herself and realized that she was covered in a thin film of dust and cobwebs. She beat at her tunic and shirt. "Did you see a young man? Blond, raggedy, big hat? He was – he was right  _here_  – "

"Oh, you saw the kid? You sure you weren't in trouble?" The dwarf crossed his arms. "He has a habit of showing up where he thinks he can help. Don't worry about the disappearing trick, he does that sometimes."

"I really wasn't in trouble, just a bad dream," she muttered, still looking around the room, spooked. "Sorry to trouble you Master, ah –" For the first time she registered who she was speaking to. She blanched, then bloomed bright red. "You're – you're Varric Tethras. Of The  _Champion of Kirkwall_ , and  _Hard in Hightown_ , and, and the other one. I've seen you around, but I – I didn't think I'd get a chance to meet you." She held out a hand, then brought it back in, then held it out again, then brought it back in and clasped her hands together. "I'm Sinead."

Varric brightened. "You've read my work? It's always nice to meet a fan, but don't think I didn't catch your omission there. Wait." He cocked a head and peered up at her. "Yeah, I recognize you. You and Chuckles used to meet at the Singing Maiden, right? I was there all the time. Why didn't you come over and say hey? I promise, I don't bite."

"You always seemed – Chuckles?"

"Elf, big ears, bald as an egg."

"Oh, Master Solas, yes. You always seemed so busy. Telling tales. I didn't want to trouble you."

"I seem busy so people won't try to make me busy," Varric said with a shrug. He looked around the room. "So, what were you doing all the way down here, Dusty? I was over in the cellar, looking for something better than the shit they serve at the Herald's Rest. The Inquisitor's building quite the assortment of spirits. What's your excuse to escape the renovations? Just looking for a quiet place to sleep?"

"I'm working. Trying to catalog our collection – the Skyhold collection." She lovingly ran a hand over the books. "There's so much here, things I've only seen referenced. The last owners of this place were serious collectors, I think," she breathed.

Varric smiled. "If you treat my books with the same amount of reverence as these doorstops, I think we'll get along just fine."

"Oh, your writing is brilliant," Sinead gushed. "I read  _Hard in Hightown_  twice! Everyone has a secret, everyone has a motive. Of course, the middle bits sometimes lag when you're moving the characters around, and one or two motivations fell flat, and of course there was that strange thing with the shield that was never satisfactorily resolved, but the action and the character interaction makes up for it all."

"You're as honest as my editor. Don't know if that's a good thing or not." He jerked his head toward the door. "Come on, let's go find a decent wine and get out of this basement, and you can tell me more about the worst parts of my books."

"Really?" Sinead nearly lifted a few inches off the floor. Then she sagged. "Oh, no I can't right now. Lady Josephine gave me little time to finish my task, and I have yet to touch these books today."

"All right, then, I guess I'll leave you to it." He winked. "When Ruffles stops cracking the whip, you let me know. Oh and," he continued as he turned to go, "if you see the kid again, could you take the time to talk to him? He may seem off, but just needs some practice talking to people. He thinks he does it wrong and keeps starting over."

"Okay," she said, bemused. The young man had said a total of six words to her. What did Varric mean by 'starting over'? She reached for her clipboard, and then stopped. Nine wooden tiles from the word game were lined up in the center of the parchment, spelling the word  _DRUFFALOS_.

* * *

Josephine examined one of the lists that Sinead gave to her, tapping her chin with a manicured finger.

"The suggested material list is extensive," she said finally. "Are you sure they are all necessary?"

"Eventually, yes, if you want research library you described to me," Sinead said. "I wrote to every major university and still populated circle for lists of their collections, and we are missing essentials." She pointed to one of the lists. "I did separate the most necessary from the least. And this list," she moved a paper from under the stack, "is more of a wish list, things that would make our library not just thorough, but something to envy. Though we do have some volumes from the previous owners that would make other librarians sweat, I can tell you."

"And this list?" Josephine held up a thick scroll.

"Recommended popular fiction and non-fiction from Antiva's most prolific publisher. He was eager to give us a discount, too, if we were willing to make a deal with him. I'm sure you can haggle that better than I ever could."

Josephine set the scroll down, smiling and placing a curled finger against her lips. "This is good work, Lady Archivist Sinead. And done just under the deadline as well. I was right to trust you with this task."

Sinead paused. "I'm sorry, what did you call me?"

Josephine arranged the lists in a neat stack. "When Cullen first recommended you, he spoke of your healing skills, barely mentioning your experience as an archivist. It is very much like him – healing is a practical skill, one that is needed for an organization that hopes to build a standing army. But archivists are rarer than healers, and just as necessary for a group determined not to repeat the failures of the past. So I reached out to a few contacts and managed to find your thesis."

Sinead sat up straight. "But…it's been in storage for years!"

"It's amazing what you can find if you know the right people." Josephine curled her hands together and leaned on them. "It was an interesting idea, connecting the Black City to stories of Arlathan. And not a dull read. A good first publication. You deserve a chance to hone your skills, find new theories, discover more, don't you think?"

"I don't – I mean I would love to – just what are you asking of me, my lady?"

"I'm offering you the position of head archivist for the Inquisition. Think of it – a youthful, pretty mage caring for the Skyhold collection, a reflection of the Inquisition – young, knowledgeable, vibrant, solving difficult riddles. Not a Master, for masters are old and dreary, but a fresh-faced Lady."

"You're hiring me because I'm young and you think me pretty," Sinead said slowly. "And Lady? I'm not a noble."

"Neither is the Lady Inquisitor. But we use the titles we must to demand respect. And I am not hiring you for your youth or your looks." Josephine tapped the stack of notes. "I'm hiring you because you do fine work, and you joined the Inquisition long before there was a possibility of our having a library, let alone something an archivist would want to run. The youth can be a stumbling block for some, so we will make it an asset. The pretty face is a happy advantage. Will you accept the position?"

Sinead blushed. She cleared her throat. "I'd be happy to be the Inquisition's lead archivist, my lady."

"Excellent." Josephine motioned to her secretary, then picked up a quill and started making notes. "Hortensia will lead you to your new private quarters, a benefit of your new position. You will also receive a larger stipend and a day off every week. I took the liberty of providing a new wardrobe, more suitable for a librarian than a healer. We will find you underlings eventually, but that may take time – we are still growing, after all. Take the rest of today off – tomorrow we will need you to begin researching the origin of Skyhold." She smiled once more. "Thank you, Lady Archivist. I look forward to working with you."

Hortensia led her through the great hall, past construction workers on scaffolding, up a set of stairs and through a door to a long, outdoor corridor overlooking the tangled gardens. "Here my lady," the woman said, unlocking a door. "Call for a bath if you wish for one." She gave Sinead the key, curtseyed, and hurried off.

Sinead pushed open the door. The room was small, but cozy, a bed with a thick mattress and fine quilt against one wall, a fireplace with a crackling fire opposite of it. There was a landscape above the fireplace, a scene in a bright green forest looking over an elven ruin. Her pack was on the bed.

She closed the door behind her and walked to a wardrobe pressed up next to a small window that overlooked the mountain plains. She opened the wardrobe and found a collection of clothing finer than she'd ever worn – long tunics that reached her knees of differing colors with embroidered collars and wide sashes, loose trousers in black and white and gray, white blouses with thick sleeves, soft slippers of red and black and gold.

She closed the wardrobe and sat on the bed, dazed. Then she began to giggle, covering her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.


	12. Panic

_Blood on the hands, her mother's blood, the fire burning all around as the qunari bleeds to death and the people in the huts scream out for help and the Templars burn to ash and the blood seeps into the skin and demands to be used and the demons whisper of power and flame._

She awoke, gasping for breath, panic gripping her chest. She threw off her bedding and swiveled, placing her feet on the thick rug and her head between her knees.

 _Druffalos_ , she thought.  _Druffalos, druffalos, druffalos. But the blood was there, there for me to use, if I used it he'd be alive and Rein too perhaps if I had made him see made him know the blood was wrong and no! I'm not thinking of druffalos, not thinking of druffalos._

The panic refused to leave her. She had to run. Had to flee from this room that was hers but not fair, it was not  _fair_  that she had a room, had a place, had a chance at happiness when all the others were gone and it was  _her fault, her fault_.

She slipped on slippers, slipping from the room with her cloak thrown over her shoulders, letting the door swing free, unseeing as she ran the corridor to the battlements, arms crossed. Her thoughts were tumbling around, unwilling to still while the air choked her.

_Power flowing free around the mana and I killed him, killed him, and they screamed for help – if I had used the blood they would have lived, would have walked free and fire wouldn't burn if the creature had burned before he bit she would have lived and I was too slow, too slow._

Away she fled, up and up the newly hewn steps of the main tower, up and up the ladder, to the top, emerging into starlight and moonlight and the vast unending sky. She staggered to the tower wall, looked down at the quiet, snowy plains.

 _It's all death, all death, and blood, and power, and wrongness, and I didn't, I didn't, I did nothing, I am nothing, I am wrong._  She leaned over the wall, shaking _. A little more, let the body lean, let the weight take over, let it topple and fall and be gone, gone, gone, away from undeserved rooms and books and love and the people who know like Edith that I am mad and wrong and terrible._

But she could not. The panic refused. It froze her, locked her body in place so that she could not lean further. She stepped back and sank to the stone, covering her head with her arms and rocking on her knees.  _Coward, coward, coward, coward_. She sat, shaking, for seconds or minutes or hours or forever, it felt like forever, with the failure and death holding her down, crushing her chest.

As the panic ebbed, she slowly realized that someone was humming. It was a familiar melody, one she had not heard for ten years – her mother's lullaby. She lifted her head to find the young man in the wide-brimmed hat crouching a few feet away from her. He had her word game, and was laying tiles out on the board, humming the lullaby in a loop.

She opened her mouth to ask who he was, why he was here, how he knew the lullaby, why he had her game, but the words stuck, the panic not yet through with her. Instead she crawled to the young man to see what he was writing with the tiles.

It was names,  _her_  names, the ones her tongue refused to say: Norwin, Rein, Eluard, Glidda. The panic flowed back, her breath became short.  _How does he know the names_? She propped herself on her knees, clasping her thighs and forcing her lungs to take deeper breaths.

The young man dropped the tiles in his hand and they clattered on the stones. "It's still wrong, still not unknotting the names." He sat, not looking at her with his expressionless face, fingers clasping and unclasping, his voice frustrated and confused. "The mind is a mire, blackness borne back by good memories, but I keep getting it wrong and speech is still silenced. Let me try again, I promise I will get it right. Let me help." He held out a hand. "Forget."

It was an instant flash of realization, a combination of moments – a second pair of footsteps in the snow, DRUFFALOS spelled out in tiles, Varric's comment about the kid starting over again – that made her reach out and slap the young man's hand away.  _How many times was I made to forget_?

"Four." The young man lowered his hand, finally looking at her. "You are very hard to help."

Though she shook, and the panic still gripped her, and her breath was tight, her mind was rushed with wonder.  _Can he read my mind_?

"I hear what will help the hurt." The young man picked up the fallen tiles with nimble fingers. "But this was wrong. The blackness is building and will spill over again." He moved to brush the tiles off the board.

Sinead grabbed his wrist. "Please," she stuttered. "Please. Say the names. Please."

The young man paused for a moment before touching the board in front of each name as he spoke, ignoring her tight grip.

"Norwin, understanding, kind, couldn't keep from helping apprentices in distress, even when they stole his books and hid them away. Rein, charming, childish, friendly, fun, but angry underneath, wanting more for him and all the others. Eluard, calm, cool, caring, kept his secrets to himself but shared his knowledge with the girl as penance and then as pleasure. Glidda, firm and fair, strong and sure, always chose a path and followed it to the end. Glidda of the glittering knives is what he called her long ago before the girl changed everything."

The wind left Sinead's lungs, and she felt her chest release. She was light-headed. She let him go and sat heavily on the stones. She laughed, low and whispery. "You know them all," she said, voice cracking as tears began to fall. "I-I could tell no one. But you know them  _all_."

The young man's eyes gleamed. "I know the others, too, the ones you think you killed but didn't, the ones you think you shouldn't have killed but did and should have, and –"

"Stop." She wiped her face, not thinking of druffalos. "It's too much. The names are enough. They're enough for now."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you not think of druffalos." He held out his hand again. "I can make you forget."

She shook her head. "Don't ever make me forget again." She sat up straight as her head cleared, taking deep, steady breaths. The young man watched her beneath his hat and his lank, blond shag. Questions flooded her, curiosity uncurling as the panic faded. In the cool light of Luna, she could see the green tinge that outlined him, there but not there. "The only people I know of that can read minds are spirits. But you feel solid, and warm. Are you a spirit, or human?"

The young man fingered the tiles in his hands. "Yes."

Sinead cocked her head and furrowed her brow. "You're possessing someone? Or a spirit possesses you?"

"No. I am me." He stated it like a fact.

"Really? You're one entity?" Hesitantly, she reached out to him. He leaned away from her touch at first, but stopped as her hand pressed against his chest. "You're breathing." Her mouth spread in a slow, wide smile. "You…manifested with a human body? That's…well, there are old stories, very old, but not even an inkling of a hint that they may be any more than tales and…frankly, it's incredible.  _You're_  incredible…ah. Um, what should I call you?" She thought a moment. "You want to help, you hear hurt…Empathy? Mercy? Or –"

"Cole." He leaned away again until her hand no longer touched him.

She gave a short laugh and clapped her hands. "You have a  _name_? That's brilliant. Amazing!"

"Why do you think so?"

He was staring, unblinking, curious. She should have known sooner that he was a spirit, she realized. Beyond the fact that he was clearly fade-touched with that green tinge, it was the eyes, the way they looked at her, or through her. The way they seemed both empty and seeking.

"It's thought that spirits don't have names, they just are what they are," she said. "But I must say, the study of spirits and the Fade is severely lacking due to fear, and here you are, defying traditional thought. And that's brilliant."

He looked away. "I took the name because I didn't know who I was. I kept it because I was me and he wasn't anymore." He shook his head. "I don't defy anything. I just wanted to help."

He was holding on tightly to the tiles, tight enough that they were probably biting into his skin, she thought. She frowned, uncurled his fist and picked out the tiles. She dumped the tiles into the leather bag next to the board, brushed a hand over the tiles spelling the names.

"I don't know why I can't…I used to try to say them, you know. Just try, when I was alone. I thought I was cursed. It took a long time to figure out it was me."

"Sitting silently on the stairs, why can't I whisper the words, I can't, angry tears, fists pounding the wall."

"Yes, exactly."

She swept the tiles into the bag and pulled the drawstring. He was staring at her again. She picked up the board, closed it and stood. She realized with a bit of mortification that she was in her shift and awkwardly tried to pull her cloak around her.

"I should try to sleep," she said. "I don't want to be the last awake tomorrow."

"But the dreams are too loud." He scrambled to his feet. "I'll play a game with you."

She was taken aback. "A game? What do you –" She stopped herself.  _Think like a spirit_. She held up the game board. "You mean this game?"

"Quiet nights, tea, he teaches new words while winning each round, tallying tile points before sleep settles in."

"I see." She nodded smiling with excitement. "I – it's been so long since I played because no one's ever – you know the rules?"

"I know because you know." He cocked his head. "Will we need tea?"

"No, it's...it isn't required, just nice, but – oh, we should be somewhere more comfortable, warmer. Come on!"

She bundled herself up and slid down the ladder, then ran down the stairs and over the battlements to her room. She reached the room, huffing a bit, and looked behind her, but Cole was not there. Her stomach sank in disappointment. Then she turned and he was there, holding a mug. She gasped, and then coughed to cover it, not wanting him to think he had done something wrong.

"It's cold. I'm sorry it's not right, but the kitchen is asleep."

"That's alright." She took the mug and had a thought as she opened her door. "Oh, am I keeping you from sleep? That wouldn't be fair to you."

"I don't sleep." He took the board from her and set it on the bed as she set the mug in the warm ash of the dying fire.

"That's convenient," she said, hanging her cloak and hopping on the bed, crossing her feet under her. "I wish I didn't have to."

"It's lonely. I talk to the stars, but they don't answer. They're too far away to hear." He crouched on the floor and picked tiles from the bag.

He was surprisingly good for someone who learned the rules by pulling from her fuzzy memories. Suspiciously good, as the tiles he pulled were always exactly what he needed to score high for each word.

"Are you cheating?" she said accusingly after he scored another thirty points. "Because that was a very lucky draw."

"The tiles want to be the best words. I take the ones that want to come out of the bag." He said it like it was perfectly sensible for the tiles to be giving him tips.

It was not long before her head began to droop and her eyes refused to stay open. She felt relaxed, more so than she had in a long time. She yawned and tried to keep sleep from coming, hoping to rally against Cole's crushing victory. But her body refused to be awake, and soon she leaned back into her pillows.

"Give me just a moment," she said. "I need to rest my eyes."

She felt the bedding shift as he moved the board from the bed to the floor. As she drifted off, she cracked open an eye and murmured, "Thank you for saving me in Haven."

"I kept you from killing."

"I know." She opened her other eye. "Thank you."

For the first time that night, he smiled – a small, soft smile, but it reached his eyes and made them seem less alien. "I'm glad."

She closed her eyes, and the last thing she remembered was the sound of her door clicking shut as she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.


	13. Cole

Cole came the following night, and the next night after that, and after that, waiting for her as she jolted out of her fiery nightmares with tea and word game at the ready. The tea was even hot.

"I took it from Solas," Cole explained. "He likes it when he can't find it. He tells himself it's okay not to drink it when it isn't in his things."

They would play in silence, not by Sinead's choice. As he stoically built words on top of hers (still winning handily thanks to the tiles' tips), she wracked her brain for something to say beyond "your turn" or disgusted tsks when his word had a particularly high score. But everything she could ask him seemed like the wrong thing to say. To probe him about his very nature would be as mortifying as someone asking how many times she went to the privy in a day or her thoughts on the male anatomy (answer: outlandish – if the diagrams she had seen were correct, men had to figure out where to fit a fleshy tail in their trousers, which both fascinated and amused her). Or worse, like inquiries into her past that she could not hope to answer beyond gruff monosyllables. And she did not know enough about him beyond their word games to ask about his day – it would feel forced, and perhaps creepy.

It was all so much easier when the other person chose to talk first. Avery and Rein had never lacked in things to say, often speaking at great lengths before Sinead was asked for an opinion or a question arose naturally. But Cole said nothing, smoothly picking tiles from the bag or putting them on the board, then looking at her to indicate that it was her turn. So she kept up the silence until she was lulled to sleep by the routine of the game and he would leave her wrapped up in her quilt.

The only thing that nearly prompted her to speak was Cole's choice of words. They were typically words she knew, even if some were rarely encountered, but sometimes he placed a word that was nowhere in her vocabulary. She wanted to say something, but stopped herself. What would he gain by cheating? And she was not so vain as to think she knew  _every_  word in the world (just most of them). But after he put down "isobar", a word that was clearly nonsense, she decided the best course of action was to catch him in the act. So the next day, along with the books she brought with her to bed, she lugged the massive library dictionary to her room.

That night, she waited for a mysterious word to appear on the board, almost as frustrated by how normal the words he played were as she was at her terrible score. But then her chance arose – he played the word cramoisy, worth fifteen points on its own, but doubled for thirty by its placement.

"Ha!" She crowed, clapping her hands. "That is a nonsense word for sure!"

He leaned back and gave her a bemused look. "No, it's cramoisy."

"What I mean is it's not a real word," she said, crossing her arms. "I've never heard such a ridiculous set of syllables. Cramoisy. Really."

"It is a real word," he said placidly. "If it wasn't real, how could I spell it with the tiles?"

"That's like saying xyxynee is a real word just because you can put the tiles in that order."

"It isn't?" He pondered the tiles in his hand, as if not sure if they were lying to him.

She huffed in frustration, pulling the immense dictionary on her bed and flipping through the pages. "Well, if cramoisy is a real word, what's its definition? Where did you read it?"

"I don't read." Cole looked up at the ceiling. "A man was reading an old book about poisonous flowers, wondering 'what does cramoisy mean?' The words didn't tell him the answer."

Sinead stopped her search, aghast. "You're  _illiterate_?"

" _No_." He sounded affronted. "I  _can_  read, I just  _don't_."

Sinead looked down at the dictionary, unsure of what to say. Someone who did not read, by choice, was anathema to her. Unfortunately, her eyes immediately alighted on the word cramoisy: adj, of crimson color. She hastily closed the dictionary, blushing.

"Why don't you read?" She asked quickly, to cover her embarrassment. "You're missing out on so many stories, and adventures, and…so much knowledge! And it isn't as if you don't have time. You said yourself you don't sleep, and it's lonely at night when there's no one to help. Why not read to pass the time?"

"The words sit on the page, silent, unmoving, unmolded, unformed, with meaning but no life." He stared at her, or through her rather. "Inside people is where words become real. I see the words the way they want to be. Was the word real?"

She avoided his question, picking up one of her books from the nightstand, opening it to the first page with heavy description, and handing it to him.

"Read that."

He was silent a moment before complying with her request, reading in a monotone. "The griffon took flight, wings spread to the wind as it plunged from its perch, its silvery feathers flashing in the moonlight. Its cry echoed o'er the mountains, talons outstretched, reaching for the blighted horde, ready to rend and rip and tear."

She was careful to keep her mind blank as he read, and placed a hand over the page when the paragraph was finished.

"What did you see when you read?" She asked. "In your own mind?"

"Symbols," he stated, almost bored. "Symbols assigned sounds that merge and make words."

"No pictures? No visions of the griffon?"

"No."

"But why not?"

"Why should there be?" He shrugged. "I don't know what a griffon should look like."

"Well, neither do I, but." She picked up the book and quickly read the passage to herself, letting her imagination take hold of the words.

"Ah, there it is." Delight rimmed his words. "Large, powerful, wings spread, beak open, red eyes angry, wanting blood. You make the words real." He set the tiles in his hand on the board. "Will you read more? So I can see the story?"

It was the first thing he ever asked of her, and she felt that she could not refuse. Anyway, she was losing terribly again and she had no desire to add up the points for cramoisy and admit her folly. So she read, silently, as he tilted her head and looked off in the distance.  _Listening_ , she realized. When the griffon was felled, saving his rider from the grasp of an ogre, they both gasped.

"How terrible," she murmured.

"He had to, though," Cole said sadly.

"But his rider won't think so, will she?"

"No, she won't," he agreed.

She read until sleep overtook her and the book slipped from her hands. She woke up the next morning and found the book on her nightstand, the last page she remembered reading earmarked.

* * *

The translation was not coming to her easily. She puzzled over the Elven paragraph found on the grounds, frustrated by the strange conjugation of the verbs and the double meaning of the adjectives. Open books were spread around her, tabbed with pieces of brightly colored string. Finally she slapped her parchment and made her way down the stairs to Solas's office.

"Master Solas, can you please tell me what this word is supposed to imply?" She slid the parchment over the book he was reading and tapped the word. "In one reference it is clearly used to mean horrible or awful. But in another, it's more like promised or sworn. It can't possibly be both in this piece. How could one word have such a difference in meaning?"

Solas smiled and set down his book. "You mean like the word bark? A very good question."

"I..well, yes. But that's not the point." She crossed her arms. " _This_  piece demands a clear answer, and I haven't got it."

Solas read over the passage and shook his head. He took his quill and circled the word after the questionable adjective. "Perhaps you should focus on other parts of the text first. This word is freedom in this context, not choice as you have translated it."

She leaned over him, her mind clicking. "That  _does_  make more sense," she muttered.

He handed the parchment back to her. "I told you that you had better perfect your elven if you ever wish to be the grand researcher, Lady Archivist."

"Well, it's not as if they have primers on it," she said testily. "Everything I know is based on translations and copies with current Dalish filled in for the unremembered bits. Not all of us can pick up ancient languages from the Fade."

"True. But you could take the time to study more thoroughly with better sources." He wrote a few book titles on a scrap of paper and handed it to her with a grin. "Not as good as the Fade, but better than what you have been working with I should think."

"I think you're the second person I've ever known who told me to study  _more_ ," she grumbled, taking the scrap of paper. "Also, thank you."

"Everyone should study more." He placed a hand on his book. "If I had stopped searching for answers when traveling the Fade, I would know not a fraction of what there is to know of the world. And even what I know is but a fraction still. Do you not think seeking answers is its own reward?" She gave him a look, then waved a hand up toward the library. "Of course. I'm sorry I asked."

His mention of seeking answers in the Fade sparked a question. She fingered the edges of the parchment. "Master Solas, in your journeys through the Fade, did you ever encounter…I mean, was there ever any indication that…what I mean is, did you ever meet or see or hear of spirits that crossed the veil and stayed, but without a body? Or with a body, but –"

"Ah, you've met Cole." Solas brightened. "I have never met one such as him before. He is the first spirit I have ever encountered that created a physical form on this side. Tell me, what do you think of him?"

"Oh, he's very nice," she said, stumbling over her words. "That is, he's been very kind. He wants to help, and of course he could be seen as odd, but it makes sense the way he thinks of what help is. The tea is good. The not reading is terrible, but I've known humans just as unwilling to pick up a book. He plays the word game well, though I wonder if knowing words from other people's heads isn't cheating after all."

Solas listened to this ramble, amused. "I was thinking more along the lines of what you think of a spirit manifesting itself outside the Fade. Though, it's good that you let him help you. He is Compassion, and he needs to feel like he is helping to stay on his true path."

She snapped her fingers. "Compassion! Of course. I was wondering what he was." She stopped. "What do you mean his true path?"

"Spirits are singular creatures. They need to fulfill their purpose to stay steady." Solas shifted in his chair, sadness flashing over his features for a moment. "If they lose sight of what they are, what they embody, they can be corrupted. It's a terrible thing. From what I understand, Cole was close to corruption once before – he calls his former self a demon, though I don't think that's right."

Sinead was taken aback. The one demon she had met was so very cruel, using her love for Eluard against her. It was so different from the quiet young man she knew. "What did he do that would be considered demonic?"

"You'll have to ask him. It is his own story to tell." He picked up his book. "I am sorry, Lady Archivist, but I must finish this reading." He smiled. "But it is good for Cole to make another friend who sees him as he is, and not as we think he  _should_  be. Don't let him forget himself."

"No. I mean, of course not." She bobbed her head and climbed back up the stairs, chewing on what Solas told her.

* * *

"The shield was never supposed to be important." Varric shook his head and pointed at the passage of  _Hard in Hightown_  that Sinead propped open in front of him. "It was just a symbol, you know? An object they'd have to search for but that was never the point of the thing."

They sat in front of the fire in the great hall where Varric had set up his things, dinner barely touched between them. Sinead frowned.

"That's all well and good," she said, disgruntled. "Not an uncommon technique. But look at that passage! You  _made_  it important with that description. You gave it a secret history, and then never followed through!"

"But that's the  _point_ , Dusty." He tapped his finger in his palm. "Some things you never know the answer to in life. You've got this guard searching all over Kirkwall for answers, and yeah, he'll find a few, but there are still things that are unknowable."

"I read enough old stories with even older undiscovered mysteries to know that." She tsked and set the book down. "You know the answer at least?"

His eyes gleamed. "Of course I do. But I can't tell you, now, can I? The only person besides myself who knows is the kid, and I swore him to secrecy. With any luck he'll remember that."

She laughed. And then frowned. Solas's comments from earlier in the day came to her. "Master Tethras, what do you think of Cole? As a spirit, I mean?"

Varric narrowed his eyes. "I thought you were fine with the word game visits. You starting to feel weird about him?"

"Not at all," she said quickly. "I want to know your opinion of him. Not as a person, as…as what he is."

"He  _is_  a person." She opened her mouth to speak but he raised a hand. "Listen, the kid doesn't think like the rest of us because he didn't come from the same place as us. But he's trying, and he asks questions, and he wants to know how things work. That's as person-ish as it gets. And the more he tries, the more he gets right. He's stopped talking to his shoelaces, finally."

"But it makes sense that he did talk to them," she said, twisting her fingers around her thumb. "In the Fade, things are what you make them. Shoelaces would listen."

"Okay, that's…weird. But whatever, that's not what it's like  _here_. And if he's going to live in the real world, he needs to learn how to function  _here_." He crossed his arms. "Why are you asking me this anyway? Out of the blue?"

"Today Solas said if Cole isn't allowed to be who he is, if he starts thinking of things that aren't in his nature, he could become corrupted. Demonic," she said, unsure.

"Like thinking shoelaces won't tie on their own even if you ask nicely?" Varric rolled his eyes. "Chuckles sees who people are, but not who they could be. Qunari are all beasts, dwarves all long for the Stone, elves long for their history, and spirits are creatures with one track minds that could go demon if they aren't, I don't know, granting wishes." Varric leaned forward. "What I say is that the kid should be allowed to walk around with tied shoes. Even if it changes how he thinks a little."

* * *

She was reading again, the same book as before, Cole sitting at the end of her bed, 'listening' to tales of the Grey Warden griffons. But her thoughts kept interrupting the flow of the story, thoughts of spirits and their nature and what it was to try to befriend one, for in truth Solas's comments unnerved her. If she said something wrong, changed his impressions, made him think differently, would he shift and change into something terrible? Varric may not think Cole knowing more about this world was a threat to his nature, may see him as a person who needed to learn to survive and adapt, but though he knew people, spirits were another thing altogether. Or were they? Who was right?

"Are you afraid of me?" Cole's comment after such a long silence startled her.

"No, of course not," she said, closing the book. "I'm sorry, I admit I've been thinking about you all day. About spirits, I mean."

"I promise, if I ever become a demon again, someone will kill me," he said, matter of factly. "Cassandra and the Inquisitor told me so."

She blanched. "But that would be awful," she said, sitting up on her knees.

"It would be worse to hurt people," he said, voice low.

"Did you –" she stopped herself, gripping her book.

Cole cocked his head. "Why don't you ask questions? You want to ask questions, but you never do. I wait, but they never come."

"Because I don't want to." She stopped as comprehension dawned on her. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Questions hurt you," He nodded, knowing. "I made the blackness spill over the first time. I asked and asked, and there were no answers, only blackness, so I made you forget everything but the good memory. But they don't hurt me."

She was quiet a moment. "You said 'become a demon  _again_.' Why?"

"I hurt people. Killed people. Innocent people to make myself more real. It was wrong. A friend made me see." He stared at the bedspread and went silent.

She closed her eyes. He was a killer. A  _killer_. But she knew that already – did she not watch him slay that creature, the Red Templar as they were calling them? It took all her effort to keep the panic from rising, to keep her from contemplating the lives lost to his knives. To remember the placid, determined look on his face when he took down the Templar. He was a killer.  _But not with malice_. And he knew no better when he took innocent lives. She opened her eyes, and he still stared at the bedspread, now hunched over and frowning. Undoubtedly he could hear her thoughts, knew the panic was at the edge of her mind. Though he claimed it did not hurt to answer her question, Sinead did not believe him. But though knowing hurt him, but it made him  _better_. And he knew it.

She made a decision.

"Cole, what do you think griffons look like?"

He looked at her, but she started not thinking of druffalos until nothing else was pictured in her mind. He was bemused. "I don't know. You won't show me."

"I don't want to know what you see in my mind," she said. "I want to know what  _you_  think they should look like. Tell me, and let's see if I get it right. I won't think of a griffon until you do."

"Why do you want to know what I think, when you already know what you think?" He was genuinely confused, and would not meet her eyes.

"Because I…I want to be your friend. And friends want to know the thoughts of friends."

"Why?"

"For the same reason you do," she said. "To help. To talk. To, to interact. Tell me what a griffon looks like."

He was quiet a long time, but she did not give up. Druffalos filled her, not allowing even a hint of a feather to appear. Finally he took a deep breath.

"They are gray," he said hesitantly. "Because they're why the Grey Wardens call themselves so. Very large."

"How large?" she pressed.

He paused. "As long as this room. Their talons are long, on the end of great scaled feet in the front. Their backs curve into paws, soft and padding but holding claws that score and scratch." He was gaining momentum. "The tail is long and flicks when its angry and ready for battle, its beak is bright orange, and when it opens its wings the wind from them can knock a man over."

Sinead smiled, picturing the griffon.

"Gold eyes, not red," he prompted. "Taller. And the talons are too blunt."

She smiled wider, imagining his idea of a griffon, and picked up the book. She read on, making his griffon live in her mind, and he 'listened' with shining eyes.


	14. A New Friend and a New Hat

The crates kept coming, dozens of them carted up the stairs to the library by diligent serving boys. The ravens in the rookery took offense to the clomping boots, and their squawking echoed around the tower.

"Please, stack them in the alcoves." Sinead ran ahead of the young men, pointing at previously delivered crates. "Don't just leave them anywhere on the floor. You'll block the flow of traffic."

The young men did as directed, then headed down the stairs for more crates. Soon their job was done, one of them gave her a piece of parchment to sign "So's the Lady Josephine knows you've received the delivery," and she was left with the additions to her collection.  _The Skyhold collection_ , she corrected herself.

She placed a hand on top of the pile of crates, a pile that reached her chin, her chest swelling with pleasure. So many new tomes to catalog and classify and shelve, so many old friends she had not seen since Kirkwall. She stifled a yawn, leaning on the crates. Despite her excitement, her body ached for sleep. Cole was off righting wrongs with the Inquisitor, and though the nightmares came less frequently over the month or so she had been at Skyhold, when they did come it took much longer to sooth her panic alone. Sleep eluded her the night before, and today she drowned herself in tea to keep awake and productive.

"Hey there, are you the Lady Archivist?" A red-haired dwarf with a cheerful grin and an effervescent voice peeked around the crates. "Oh, you look busy. I can come back later."

"I am the archivist. And all this can wait. It'll take time to sort through anyway." She still was not used to people calling her by her title, but the Orlesians expected decorum from their librarians and she found it helped to put on an air of authority. She straightened and bowed slightly. "What can I do to help?"

"Oh, I'm not looking for anything in particular." The dwarf took Sinead's hand and shook it, then stepped away and examined a nearby shelf. "I'm Dagna. Just came on board to help with enchanting. I studied at Circle Tower, which has an extensive library, and I wanted to see if the Inquisition measures up."

Sinead brightened. Inquiries about the library itself, rather than just the average request for novels with unhelpful indicators like, "oh, do you have that one book, I read the beginning but I've forgotten the title…I think it's red?" pleased her. It was a chance to share something she loved with someone equally interested. Unfortunately, Varric and Solas seemed to be the only laypeople with a desire to know about the inner workings of the library (the former because he was surprised by the amount of popular fiction she requested, the latter because the library was essential for his research). And Lady Josephine was interested, of course, but anyone who held the purse strings would have it in their best interests to know if the library was being run properly.

"Oh, we certainly can't match a Circle library at this time. It's a small collection, if bountiful in knowledge. But this," she patted the crates, "is the beginning of rectifying that. And I've been told there will be deliveries every week for the next month."

Dagna pulled a book from the shelf, looking at the spine where Sinead had marked a series of numbers. "Oooh, you're using the Tevinter classification system?"

"A modified version." Sinead's pleasure grew. "I've included the University of Orlais's extra classes, and their card catalog system." She pointed at a large chest of drawers at the head of the stairs, near where the creature researcher Helisma had set up her things.

"That makes way more sense than trying to look through a bunch of scrolls, yeah. I've heard Tevinter's libraries are like labyrinths – gotta leave a bread trail to every subject," Dagna said, replacing the book and reading the titles of its fellows. "What's your main focus? I mean, as a mage, I assume it's magic, but -"

"Mainly focused on lore right now," Sinead said, pulling the top off one of the crates. "But that's just a beginning. I want this library to be the pinnacle of research. Somewhere that anyone looking for information on the new and the exciting and the controversial can find answers, connections, questions they didn't think to ask. A place where research from all over Thedas can be found." She pulled out a book and handed it to Dagna. "This whole crate contains research on the Fade, some things from Tevinter that the Chantry banned for years. Isn't it magnificent?" She paused. "I'm so sorry, I went on and on. You're the new arcanist?"

Dagna was paging through the book with a hungry expression. "This is excellent," she squealed. "I've heard of the magisters researching the composition of the Fade, but I didn't know this book existed!"

"I know, Master Pavus recommended it when I was considering what to add to the collection! I was stunned by what Tevinter's accomplished. Wait, look at this." Sinead paged to the last chapter. "That is a whole argument about why thoughts affect the Fade. It's mostly speculation, but he went into the Fade lucidly often and diligently tested his hypotheses."

Dagna snapped the book shut. "You have to let me borrow this, like _, right now_ ," she begged.

"Of course! Wait –" She took Dagna by the wrist and led her to her work table, quickly looked up her main scroll of every library acquisition, marked the spine with the proper classification numbers and filled out a card, then handed it to Dagna. "It's yours for two weeks."

"Thank you so much." Dagna hugged the book to her chest. "I've been trying to link enchanting to the Fade for ages. You wouldn't believe how powerful a rune could be if it was perpetually feeding off the Fade. To know its composition –"

"Oh, wow, if you're even attempting such experiments with your runestones, your enchanting must be incredibly advanced." Sinead clasped her hands. "Would you show me your equipment? Physical research was never my passion, but it was always fascinating to watch. And I know Kirkwall was years behind everyone else – everything was stifled there."

"Are you kidding? It would be a pleasure. Come on, you've gotta see my setup!"

Dagna led her through the great hall and down to the Undercroft. A cool breeze circled the stone hollow of a room, and a gruff man sorted through a chest near the stairs. He frowned and nodded at Dagna as they entered the room.

"That's Harrit. Don't mind him, he's a big softy under all that grump. Hey, Harrit!" Harrit snorted and went back to his chest. Dagna dragged Sinead over to her rune-making equipment and enchanting tables. "Here's where the magic happens! Oh, that sounded kind of cocky. I mean, it's literally where magic happens. I'm not trying to say anything particular about my work. Though it  _is_  pretty good, if I do say so myself."

Sinead was in awe. The equipment was far more complicated than anything Kirkwall had. She reached out to the rune-maker.

"Careful! I use pure lyrium, and there could be trace amounts left," Dagna warned.

"Oh, that would be an unpleasant way to die." Sinead pulled her hand back. "Going mad and frothing at the mouth and so on. But look at the rune press – it's so deep, so many indentations. You must use nearly twice the lyium than conventional presses over the same surface area. Where did you get the specifications for this equipment? "

"It's actually something I designed myself." Dagna rocked on her heels with satisfaction.

"That's incredible, truly incredible. Brilliant!"

Dagna crossed her arms. "Okay, I gotta know. When did you know?"

"Know what?" Sinead was distant, still enthralled with Dagna's equipment.

"That you had to know."

Sinead turned to Dagna, laughing. "Know  _what_?"

"Everything!"

Sinead thought for a moment. "I always wanted to know. I wanted to know how to make my magic safe, how to make it useful, how many words there were in the world, how to talk to spirits, how to make cookies, how to find my way alone through the forest." She smiled. "But when I joined Kirkwall's Circle, when I had access to a library the first time, I think that's when I realized just how much I didn't know. And how much I wanted to know before I went to the Beyond." She tilted her head, cocking a brow at Dagna. "How about you, Arcanist Dagna?"

"Oh, wow, that's like asking when I took my first steps." Dagna giggled. "But I knew when I was a kid that there was no way I'd spend my life in front of an anvil. No offense, Harrit!" Harrit grunted.

"You're smith caste? The caste system is fascinating. Limiting to some, a comfort to others. Reminds me of the Qunari."

"Must be fascinating to someone who didn't grow up under it, sure," Dagna said with a shrug. "Count me as one of the ones limited by it. And I'm not smith caste anymore – my parents consider me  _such_  a disappointment."

"Oh." Sinead's face fell. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to –"

"No, it's okay, trust me." Dagna patted Sinead's torso. "I guess it is sad and all, but I had to  _know_ , you know? Castelessness is better than not knowing."

Sinead grinned and took Dagna's hand. "Call me Sinead."

"I totally will." Dagna grasped her hand and shook it vigorously. "We are so having lunch tomorrow."

"Absolutely."

* * *

When Sinead went back to the library, she found a book propped on top of the crates – something she knew she had not pulled from the shelves or the new additions to the collection. She picked it up, and it crackled under her touch. It was old, the edges of the pages ragged. She opened it carefully, smiling. It was an old Dwarven book that named paragons she had never heard of – the language was archaic, and would take time to translate.

"Cole's home," she whispered, closing the book and walking to the shelf where she carefully stored books still needing repairs.

It started not long after she was made Archivist, after Cole's first ventures in Thedas with the Inquisitor and her main crew. When he returned, Sinead found a book laying on her pillow, a spell book on blood magic picked up from a dead apostate. At first she thought it was someone at Skyhold slyly informing her that they knew her little secret. But when Cole 'heard' her distress during a word game, he admitted leaving the book for her.

"You want every book," he explained, concerned that he had done something wrong. "Every book that you don't have. You don't have this one, and I knew the demons wouldn't change you like the man who used it. You only use the blood when you need to.  _With no malice_."

His knowledge of Eluard's rule distressed her even more. She knew he would know of her blood magic, of course he would know, but facing the truth of it made it real, tangible. "If I'm found with this, it could cause trouble," she explained, holding the book out to him gingerly. "I…there are a lot of people here for whom using blood magic is the same as a person declaring herself a friend of demons. Of Corypheus, even, given how he used it to taint the Black City."

Cole thought a moment, and then nodded. "Yes. This book could hurt you. Some would understand. Others would not, and it would be bad. I'm sorry, I will get it right next time."

He took the book and tossed it in the fire. She held back a cry as the pages crisped up and the cover blackened. It hurt to watch a book burn, hurt to consider the knowledge she was giving up, but her fear of being discovered quelled her pain.

In the following weeks, Cole lived up to his promise. Every time he came back from missions with the Inquisitor, a book waited for her, something unique, or rare, or something that had not been ordered, or something so long out of print that she wondered if any catalogs knew of its existence. Some had very little research value – once he left an Orlesian romance so bawdy that she wondered whose boudoir he had stolen into to find it. Others were so invaluable that she was hesitant to tell Josephine of its acquisition lest the fair and honest lady send out inquiries to libraries and nobility about a missing treasure.

She only asked Cole once where he found the books. "The owners were dead," he said calmly. "They don't read where they are now." He said it as if it was the most rational explanation anyone could give. She decided this was one thing she did not need to know.

She knew she was not Cole's only target for his little gifts. She heard a kitchen girl talking once when fetching a quick snack about the mystifying change in mood of the stern cook. And another time two nobles in the library chatted about the strange appearance of a pair of gloves that one of them was sure was lost during his travels to Skyhold – a happy find, given that his late mother had gifted them to him. And every servant had stories of the Skyhold ghost who left treats for them, or extra soap and clean rags and water that they did not have to fetch for themselves, or hot tea after a long shift, if they climbed the stairs to the creepy rafters of the Herald's Rest and asked politely for a boon.

Still, it was nice that someone took notice of something she loved so much. And they were the first true gifts she had received since the day Rein stole a cake for her. No, she could not think of that. The day her mother gave her the hairpins, perhaps? No, being bequeathed a family heirloom by a dying loved one was less a gift and more a responsibility. And she did not want to think of that either. Then the day that Eluard gave her the word game, a gift given when she was learning how to read, to make a sport out of learning vocabulary.

In truth the books were the first gifts given to her without a sense of burden or reciprocation or purpose. They were simply given to make her  _happy_. She felt that she had to repay Cole somehow, though she was not sure what to do for someone whose purpose and pleasure came from helping – aside from allowing him to help, of course. She pondered this as she opened the crates and started the process of classification and cataloging the new collection.

She found her answer a few weeks later. Dagna was late to meet her for lunch at the top of the main tower, and she began to eat, her stomach refusing to wait longer for its meal. Suddenly Dagna popped up through the trap door, startling Sinead and making her choke on her cheese.

"We are going  _shopping_!" Dagna said gaily.

Sinead coughed, clearing her throat. "What? Where did this come from? And what about lunch?"

"Scarf it down, Natty. I ate on my way here." Dagna waved at her impatiently. "A merchant's set up by the stables! And from what I've heard, women who are friends go shopping together." She disappeared down the trap door.

Sinead stuffed the rest of her cheese sandwich in her mouth and followed Dagna down the ladder and the stairs to the grounds of Skyhold. When she finished chewing she said, "Who said that women who are friends shop together? I've never shopped with any of my friends, let alone the women."

"I don't know, it was something they did in Orzammar, I guess," Dagna said, leading her past the healer's tents. "To be honest I've never shopped with someone before, either. But it's an actual merchant at Skyhold. Don't you want to see what she has? Oh, I wonder if she has any rune crafting materials…"

The stall was modest, but well-stocked. Weaponry was stacked on stands, examples of armor hung from the canopy. Dagna attacked a large box filled with strange and magically potent artifacts that gave Sinead a headache. She politely looked over the wares, uninterested in most of them. She had no desire for anything – she was clothed and shod well, and armor was unnecessary. She supposed it would be good to update her staff – she had not done so since soon after the Annulment. But she had not yet saved enough coin for something worthwhile.

Absently she sorted through a stack of cowls and light helmets, running her hands over smooth silk and hardened leather. A wide brim at the bottom of the pile caught her eye. She tipped the pile and took hold of the brim, wiggling the helmet free from a steel scout hat.

It was metal, but she wasn't sure what kind. It had been dulled to a brownish gray, its only adornment a crest of serrated spikes fanned on the front of the crown. She flipped it, and found a thick lining of leather within to make a snug fit.

A smile uncurled across her lips and her eyes lit up. "It's perfect," she breathed.

Dagna looked up from the pile of goods she had collected and stacked on the merchant's table. "Oh. Uh, sure, that hat would…uuuh, I'll be honest, I'm not really a fashion expert, but I don't know if it's really…you?"

"Not for me," Sinead said, disgruntled. "I wouldn't be able to reach the shelves with this brim. Cole!"

"The ghost?" The merchant eyed Dagna warily. "Oh, don't worry, he's not a real ghost. He's just a spirit guy human thing who can make himself invisible and has this nifty trick where he makes people forget him. You've probably already met him and don't remember, haha!"

The merchant did not look reassured.

"I'm surprised  _you_  remember him," Sinead said, amused. "I'd think you'd want to poke and prod him if you met him. He'd make you forget for sure if you did."

"I tried! He told me things about my parents that no one else knows, pulled it right from my head! So fascinating," she said wistfully. "I just needed a little blood, maybe some hair…but he shied away, and I haven't seen him since. All I hear are stories. You know he was stealing daggers, right? Collected a barrel full of them. How great is that?"

"Master Tethras told me, yes." Sinead laughed. "He wanted to stop people from hurting each other too much when they got into fights. No daggers, no stab wounds."

"See what I mean? Totally fascinating. Just the way he thinks, you know?" Dagna looked dreamily at one of the rune components in her hand. "Makes me wonder if the whole Fade is like that. You know, super literal. If I could talk to him again…"

"Oh, leave him alone, Dagna." Sinead bumped the dwarven woman with her hip. "He wants to help, not to be part of one of your experiments. I'll take the helmet, thanks."

She left Dagna at the foot of the Skyhold stairs and meandered to the Herald's Rest, twirling the helmet in her hands. The tavern was slow, the midday revelers gone back to their duties. The Iron Bull and his Chargers were the only patrons on the first floor, chattering loudly while the bard twiddled on her lute. She looked down so as to not catch anyone's eyes. She did not fear the Qunari's crew, but she barely knew them. The man named Krem had wandered into the library a few times looking for something decent to read, but the rest were only familiar faces and no more. The thought of being called over to talk to a raucous crew to amuse them in a slow tavern unnerved her.

She safely reached the blessedly empty second floor and scaled the stairs to the third quickly, hiding the helmet behind her back and not thinking of druffalos. She had never visited Cole's haunt before, only now realizing how strange it was that she never went looking for him. She looked around the attic, her heart sinking. There were barrels, boxes, and crates lining the wall, no doubt filled with the regular supplies of a tavern. There was no sign that anyone lived in the darkened rafters.

 _He is like a ghost_ , she thought sadly.  _He leaves nothing of himself behind. Just that feeling that everything is sunnier than you think it is._

At first she thought she was alone in the attic, which made sense – it was still daytime, still plenty of time to tweak things and make the world a little better. But as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw Cole crouched in a corner, watching her from under his hat.

"Why aren't you thinking of druffalos, Sinead?" he said when he caught her eye.

She thought to ask him why he was here and not running his usual errands, or ask why he said nothing while she looked around the attic. But she checked herself and instead said, "I've brought something for you," making sure to keep the druffalos running around her mind. It was a silly thing – surely he could see the brim from behind her back. It was certainly wide enough.

"Why?"

 _Not what. Of course._  "Because I found it, and I think you'll like it," she replied. "And also to thank you for the books. And also because you're my friend and I wanted to bring you something."

"So many alsos."

"I know. Sorry." She sat across from him, pulling the helmet from behind her back. "Surprise!"

He looked at the helmet quizzically. "But I already have a hat."

"Yes, but this is  _another_  hat," she said, deflating a bit. "You can have more than one hat."

"I know," he said, touching the brim of his hat. "But I like  _my_  hat."

"But." It was not going as she thought it would. She thought quickly. "But you take that hat with you when you're running around fighting red Templars and, and bandits and smugglers and things, right? But it's made mostly of leather. What if someone burns it, or lops off the brim with a sword? What will you do then?" His dismayed look nearly made her retreat and give up her case, but she barreled on. "This one's made completely of metal, and it also isn't as shiny as yours. Perfect for sneaking, you see? No one will harm this helmet when you're out in the field, and your hat will be safe and sound and waiting for you at Skyhold."

He considered her gift for a moment, then took off his hat, shaking out his lanky hair and trading her. He gingerly placed the helmet on his head. "It's light," he said, surprised. He tilted his head one way, then the other. "It stays in place. My hat shifts and stirs and sometimes blocks my eyes. It makes things hard sometimes."

"It looks dashing," she said, covering her smile with a hand.

His lanky hair was more pronounced in the helmet, white-blond and brushing his shoulders, bangs clearly hacked away with a dagger or knife from time to time for vision's sake. But she did think it gave him a certain air, though if she was honest with herself it was not exactly  _dashing_. More like dangerous. It made her shiver a bit, playing with the floppy brim of his hat as realization unfurled in her. It was as if she held one part of him in her lap, the soft, comfortable bit that made him seem so harmless. And the helmet she gave him was the other part, the hardened part that was serious about his knives and their going into you if you needed to be killed.

"If you don't like it, I can take it back," she blurted, suddenly unsure of this gift.

"No, this is a good hat," he said, taking it off and placing it on top of a small chest next to him. He smiled that small smile that gave him such a strong veneer of humanity. "Thank you, Sinead."

She smiled back hesitantly, placing his hat back on his head. "You're welcome, Cole."


	15. Dancing

"The Inquisition is not in the business of allowing people to usurp filled positions, sister." Josephine sounded cool and critical. "We are loyal to those who are loyal to us."

"That's all well and good, my lady, but if someone comes to you offering their skills, their wealth of knowledge, would you not consider that perhaps they deserve more than the title of under archivist?" The unknown voice was haughty and clipped. "Frankly I find it insulting."

Sinead held her breath. She waited in the alcove of Josephine's office, ear pressed against the door. Since the Inquisitor had saved the life of Empress Celine and managed to patch things up between the Empress, her cousin and her lover (speculation as to how this was done ran rampant at the hold – most supposed it was a combination of blackmail and sexual favors, typical Orlesian bargaining chips), more people had made the journey to Skyhold to join the Inquisition's efforts. To Sinead's surprise, this included a few archivists.

But unfortunately, among the archivists were few who would agree to be under such a young master, title or no title. So far only one candidate from the University of Orlais had stayed on after Josephine and Sinead reviewed his credentials. A dedicated academic in his early thirties, Marcel Tolbert heartily accepted the under archivist position. He claimed gaining a higher position at the University was cutthroat and to be an under archivist was a major step up. He was a blessing, tackling the cataloging process of new books with enthusiasm. But he did have an unfortunate habit of complimenting her exuberantly – he called her Ma Dame de Lotus Noir, which forced her to hide her flustered demeanor under a layer of aloofness.

But it seemed this new candidate would go the way of the others, from the sound of it.

"The Lady Archivist is a diligent and knowledgeable individual who has a vision for Skyhold's research collection that is admirable. I assure you, Sister Guerrin, working under her will be no insult." Josephine had a firm tone, but it had a soothing edge to it. "We would regret to lose your skill. Of course, you are welcome to make your leave, but I recommend meeting your potential supervisor before you do. Hortensia, please see in Lady Sinead."

Sinead jumped back from the door. She took several deep breaths, bringing into mind the birds of the forest during mating season. Some of the species would puff themselves up to scare off rivals. She stood up straight and put on a Look, repeating to herself  _I am a lady. Act like it._

Hortensia opened the door, cocking a brow at Sinead.  _Oh dear, this may be pointless,_  she thought. Still, she walked determinedly into the room, her gait slow and deliberate.

"Good afternoon, Lady Montilyet," she said, nodding placidly at Josephine. She looked down her nose at a Chantry sister in her middling forties who had a sour look around her mouth. "Is this the newest candidate for under archivist?"

"This is Sister Dorcas Guerrin, my lady," Josephine said, folding her hands together. "She's an expert in the lore of the Avvar, among other things. Her credentials are substantial. She offers her services to the Inquisition."

Sinead nodded, placing a finger to her lips. "The Avvar are a fascinating people. I have read Sister Petrine's research, of course. They have such uncompromising lore. The Lady of the Skies seems a harsh mistress, does she not?"

Sister Guerrin was silent a moment. "Only if seen in a certain light," she said slowly. "She is kinder than the mountains that the Avvar live among."

"And yet did she not refuse to bless the ptarmigan when she searched for the mountain-father's heart? Such a lack of trust in her most faithful subject."

"But one can assume that the ptarmigan was not blessed so as to save the poor thing a terrible death. After all, even the eagles failed to find the heart." Sister Guerrin was falling into her knowledge. Sinead recognized the look of someone turning their words over in their head, preparing a debate. All thoughts of Sinead's worthiness as head of the archive were forgotten. How was that important when someone was clearly misinterpreting lore? "The tale is not just one of endurance – it's a missive, a lesson to tribe leaders that even the seemingly weak are capable of great things. That even the Lady of the Skies must not discount her smallest subjects."

Sinead smiled sweetly. "What a wonderful lesson from the Avvar. Would that we could all take it to heart."

The sourness melted from the sister's face. She cracked the smallest of sardonic grins. "Oh, you  _are_  a bright one, aren't you?"

"Sister, I don't disagree that I am young, and I yet have much to learn," Sinead said. "But I promise you, the archive I run is worthy of your time, and I won't fail you as a master. Also, I've seen your credentials, and I don't disagree with you about the title of under archivist. You are more than that. Perhaps simply archivist and consultant of Ferelden lore? And a stipend to suit the title?"

The sister tapped the arms of her chair. "I am a field researcher as well, you know. Will I have leave to follow the trails of research where they lead me…my lady?"

"Of course. And I'm sure the Inquisition will have no issue with funding expeditions should they arise." Sinead looked at Josephine, who nodded.

"Very well, I accept the position." The sister rose to her feet and shook Sinead's hand. "I admit, I expected a milk sop. It's good to know you'll keep me on my toes. I must attend to my belongings. If you will excuse me."

When the door closed on sister Guerrin, Sinead flopped in the chair. "She'll be a tough one to manage, my lady. Are we really so bereft of potential archivists?"

"Unfortunately, we are. It seems a youthful king or a youthful commander is easier to follow than a youthful archivist." Josephine smiled over folded hands.

"Of course," Sinead said, straightening her sash. "Wars and nations come and go, but an archive has to last through the ages."

"I thought you handled her quite well, Lady Archivist. And she's a brilliant woman."

"I know." Sinead rubbed her eyes and stood. "I read one of her essays when I was still an apprentice. She's magnificent at what she does. Her experience is unmatched by few. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have her running our archive?"

Lady Josephine shook her head. "Good day, my lady."

* * *

As Sinead entered the library, Marcel ran up to her, holding out a clipboard.

"Another delivery," he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "This one is all from Antiva. Finally a section to show to the dignitaries! I need you to sign this please, Ma Dame de Lotus Noir, and then I shall get to work on cataloging them right away."

Sinead smiled, pained, and signed the parchment. "My lady is good enough, Marcel."

"Of course, Ma Dame. But what good is good enough?" He chuckled at his joke, bowed, and bounced away.

She sighed and continued to her worktable, only to have her path blocked by Dorian. He smoothly sidled out of the alcove he had claimed as his own weeks before like a cat lording over his spot in the sun.

"My Lady Black Lotus, may I have a word?"

Silently Sinead cursed Marcel _._  She smiled toothily. "Knowing you, you will have many words, Master Pavus."

"I have your leave then." He held up a book. "Your collection is still filled with base southern Chantry propaganda. Look here, this volume is one treatise against Tevinter after another."

Sinead glanced at the title. "That's because it's a propagandic tract written in two ten Divine, Master Pavus. It's in the collection for historical use."

"Do you think that every backwoods volunteer of this rough and tumble operation will understand that?" He tossed the book behind his shoulder and held up another. "I do genuinely appreciate your attempt to make this library into something worthwhile. Good find, this one, Octavius's mad rants on demons was a favorite of mine as a child. But if we're going to make an effort, we might as well go all the way, hmm?"

Sinead plucked the tome from his hand. "Technically _I'm_ a backwoods volunteer, you know."

"An exception that proves the rule, my lady. You had the benefit of learning how to bathe properly and Josephine's fine taste in clothing." He gave her a critical eye. "Though perhaps you could do something with your hair. The braided crown says country tavern wench more than respected lady."

"Your snobbery does you no justice, ser." She circled his face with a finger. "I hear pretension gives you wrinkles."

"If that was true I'd have the complexion of a dried fig." He sat on the stuffed chair he had brought up for himself the following week and crossed his legs. "Did I thank you yet for the books you set out for me?"

Sinead smiled. "You liked them, then?"

"Certainly a diversion on the long carriage ride to and from Halemshiral. Better than trying to make conversation with Cole or Vivienne, I must say. I don't know what the Inquisitor was thinking, bringing the three of us along."

"Two nobles and a spirit that can slip around secretly? Makes sense to me." Sinead shrugged. "But of course, Master Pavus, I'm just a backwoods volunteer." She hesitated, then continued on, "What was the ball like?"

"Oh, it was the usual," he said, bored. "Sparkling dresses, delicious food, open murder. It almost felt like home."

"Open murder?" She was aghast. "Why is the Game so vicious?"

"Because people with money, power and time have little else to do with themselves, I suppose. It's brutal, but it does come with dancing."

"And did you dance?"

"Ma Dame de Lotus, I make it my business to dance whenever the music and the right company are available." He jumped up and took her hand, spinning her, then swept her around. "Our dear Inquisitor danced with the enemy, of course. Josephine and Leliana each accepted a turn or two on the floor. Even Vivienne snuck in a dignified waltz. Only our poor bemused Commander and our lovable assassin refused to accept an invitation. Though in the case of Cole, it's unlikely anyone noticed him." He dipped her, then righted her and spun her away. "At least he didn't wear that hat of his."

Sinead laughed. "Poor Commander Cullen. I'm not surprised that he didn't dance. He's always been a bit stiff. Oh, but Cole not dancing is a shame."

"Don't tell him I said so, but I thought so as well." Dorian sat back in his chair. "Someone who can move like he can in a fight has a light step, I should think. I asked later, and apparently it's difficult to read someone's mind while also focusing on their feet. No word on why he couldn't stop the one for the other."

Sinead made her leave, promising to "do something about the collection" eventually, and finally made it to her work table. But as she worked the idea of sparkling dresses, delicious food, open murder and dancing refused to leave her. She kept drifting off into day dreams filled with twirling fabric and music.

* * *

After dinner was served, and the great hall cleared, and the fires of the smithy were stoked, and Skyhold settled down for the night, Sinead made her way to the Herald's Rest, climbing the stairs to the rafters in twos.

"Hallo, hallo," she said, waving a book around as she reached the third floor, not waiting for her eyes to adjust. "I've brought a good one tonight. We had a whole delivery of fiction today."

Cole was sitting at the edge of the floor, legs dangling over the rafters, leaning his body against the short wooden rail. He looked up at her. "Is there anything I need to think about before you think about it?"

"I haven't read it yet, so I don't know what it's about." She joined him, sliding her legs over the ledge. "I suppose we'll both have to imagine it today."

It had become a regular ritual to visit Cole in the evening when he was most likely to be free, much like taking lunch with Dagna or picking Solas's brain about the Fade or sparring with Dorian or arguing the finer points of writing with Varric. She was so busy that she barely had time to think of how strange this all was for her – to have so many people whom she spoke to and thought of as friends – such a difference from a mere six months before. She enjoyed her work, she enjoyed her friends, she enjoyed being a small part of something so much bigger. She was almost afraid to admit that she was happy, lest she spoil the spell somehow. In fact, the panic came twice now simply from thoughts of her happiness flitting away, once when Cole was not at Skyhold, which was terrible. It took all of her resolve to chase dark thoughts away, and she was left breathless, shaky and sweating.

Of all her rituals, this one was her favorite. Reading quietly as Cole listened, every now and then stopping the story to talk about the characters or the story as if they were people whom they knew. When the tavern noise grew too loud for reading, she asked about his day and who he helped, and he'd ask her questions like, "Why did he go along with the banker's plan when he knew the banker was corrupt and would use him in the end?" or "Why would the woman who loved two men fly away with the one she loved less than the other? Is it because the second man could not be a good man unless she was gone?" And she'd try to answer to the best of her ability, though where he came up with these premises mystified her.

It did not escape her notice that her nightmares were now nearly nonexistent.

She opened the book, then closed it again. "I haven't asked how the ball was, how rude of me. What did you think of Halemshiral?"

"The hats were wonderful," he said cheerfully. Then his tone darkened. "The people who wore them were not. They wore masks over masks, no difference between old friends and old enemies, spoken words meant something completely different than what was said and everyone knew what the meaning meant. It gave me a headache." He looked sheepish. "I stayed in the library mostly."

"Is that why you didn't dance, then? All the people scheming on the dance floor?" She swung her legs back and forth. "Now that makes sense, more than you not knowing how. If you can go where the knife wants to go, why couldn't you go where the music wanted you to go?"

"That's not how it works." He sounded incredulous, as if not believing that she did not know this. "People make the rules for dancing, not the music. The music wants you to move, it doesn't care  _how_."

"Well pardon me," she said, holding her breast in false offense. "I forgot to ask the music how it works."

"Music can't speak, Sinead," he chastised. "It  _feels_."

"Of course it can speak," she said stoutly. "Can't you hear?" She placed a finger to her lips and the bard's sad refrain of "Rise" became more focused. She swayed to the beat. "It's sad, but it doesn't want you to share its unhappiness," she whispered. "It's pretty clear."

The tune finished, and "Once We Were" began. Quickly she scooched away from the edge of the floor and straightened her tunic, then started stepping to the beat as Avery taught her long ago, an easy waltz – one, two, three, one, two, three.

"See? The music tells me where to go," she said. "Try."

Cole stood and watched her for a moment, then tried the same steps, but stumbled over his feet.

"Stop listening to this." She tapped her head. "Listen to the music. Shut everything else away."

He tried again, still stumbling over every other step. Exasperated, Sinead stopped him, then took hold of his hand and placed her other hand on his shoulder. "Follow my lead. Don't think, for Maker's sake."

She counted under her breath, pulling him into a lead. At first he was terrible, jerkily stepping to her beat, stepping on her toes and missing his cue to move. But when she muttered, "Cole,  _I'm_  the  _knife_ ," something clicked. His body became loose, his steps easy, and he led her gracefully in circles.

He stopped suddenly when the song ended and pulled away. "That's dancing?" His eyes were gleaming with delight. "The body pulled along by the song? Can you show me another one?"

Sinead laughed. "I don't know another one, sorry. Dancing wasn't considered an important lesson in my life. And I don't have time to study fashionable dances. You'll have to learn them on your own, I'm afraid." A determined look came over him as he considered her words. "Oh, I've started something, haven't I? Okay, I'll take responsibility. If you learn another dance, I'll be glad to learn it too. Dancing alone is all well and good, but it's always more fun with someone else to dance with."

"That's why Avery taught you. She knew the steps, but needed another to make it whole."

"Exactly, yes." Her smile faltered and guilt filled her chest. She had not thought of Avery in months except in passing. A friend out in the world suffering an unknown fate and she was dancing like the world was not still in jeopardy.

"She is okay," Cole said, reassuring her. "She's helping."

"But is she safe, wherever she is?" she blurted.

"She's…alive," Cole said weakly.

"I see." Sinead fingered her sash. She sat down and opened the book. "I think…I think I'd like to read a little."

Cole nodded, sitting next to her and leaning against the railing. They escaped the world together, looking through another's eyes, following another life.


	16. Grief

One day, Dagna was late for lunch. This was not abnormal – when Dagna was deep in a project, sometimes Harrit had to throw something at her and force her to leave her bench or she'd fall over from hunger. But Dagna never showed for lunch, and she was not in the great hall for dinner. Sinead did not worry – she knew the power of a project over mind and body. But when she went to the Herald's Rest to meet up with Cole, she was surprised to find the woman laughing and talking cheerily with the Iron Bull's Chargers.

Curious, she edged over to the group.

"What I'm saying is, you get an enchantment on your sword or your knives or your staff –"

"It's a bow," an elf said sharply.

"-and that weapon'll do ten times the damage! Twently. Twenty. Ten or twenty times the damage! Or percent, I mean. Ten or twentily percent."

"That's quite a difference, arcanist." Krem rubbed his chin. "Is it multiple times the damage, or a percentage?"

"Oh, does it matter?" Dagna stretched her arms wide, unsteady on her feet. "More damage is more damage!"

She was drunk. She had to be. In the time Sinead had known Dagna, she had never known the dwarven woman to not be precise about something like the damage her enchanted weaponry was capable of.

"Hallo, Dagna," she said cheerily, inserting herself in the group. "I haven't seen you over here before."

"Dagna's a friend of yours, Lady Archivist?" Krem raised his tankard. "She's been very...chatty with us today."

The Iron Bull leaned down and murmured, "What he means is she's drunk as a dwarf. I know it's kind of racist, but…"

"Sinead!" Dagna threw an arm around Sinead's waist. "I was just telling them about some of the runes they could have in-en-put in their stuff."

"Oooh, I bet they're very fascinated, too." She looked around the Chargers, who failed to meet her eyes. "Um, Dagna, how long have you been here?"

"What time is it? It doesn't matter. Sometime after breakfast?" Dagna giggled. "Wow, is it dark outside? That's great!"

Sinead held up a finger. "I'll be right back." She ran up the stairs. Cole met her on the second floor.

"Do you need help?"

"No, I was just going to tell you I couldn't – oh Andraste's thumbs, I don't know where Dagna's room is."

"I do." He flitted down the stairs.

Sinead followed him, not able to keep up with his speed. He was gone before she reached the first floor. She shook her head, exasperated, and went back to the Chargers and the chattering Dagna.

"So you twist and twist, it sucks up all the energy, just sucks it right up," Dagna turned her hands and shook them. "And then spew! It's all over them! Just covering them, you see? You see what I mean?"

The Iron Bull was laughing as Krem hid his face. Sinead decided not to ask.

"Oh, hey, Dagna, you were supposed to show me a new schematic today, do you remember?" She linked Dagna's arm through hers, which was difficult given their height difference.

"I was?" Dagna crinkled her brow. "I don't remember –"

"You were! Come on, let's go to your room. We can have tea!" She maneuvered Dagna away from the Chargers.

"Oh, okay, I guess." She waved at the Chargers. "Bye, guys! Let me know what you think of the twisty energy sucker spitter thing! I'll come up with a better name for it later."

The Chargers gave Dagna a "ho!" Krem winked at Sinead and gave her a small salute.

Cole was outside, waiting in the dark so quietly that his tap on her shoulder startled her. "Where's her room?" she hissed.

He led her down past the healer's tents and the stables, and up through the kitchen door. Dagna stumbled on the steps, Sinead catching her before she tipped over the edge.

"Oh, everything is spinning." Dagna leaned against Sinead. "Did you know in Tevinter some philosophers think the world spins around the sun and not the other way around? Isn't that crazy?"

"Tell me about the theory," Sinead said, trying to keep Dagna from passing out.

Dagna happily explained something called heliocentricity that at any other time would have gripped Sinead's imagination. But now she barely listened, half carrying the woman as she followed Cole through a series of doors in the lower levels of Skyhold, coming upon a windowless basement room. The room was not cheerless or uncomfortable, however – plush furniture filled the room, along with a long table filled with tools and half-finished projects. The walls were plastered with sketches.

"Your room is wonderful, Dagna," Sinead said, charmed. "So like you."

"It reminds me of home," Dagna said, staggering to her bed and rolling on it. "Well, this  _is_  home. It reminds me of Orzammar. The Stone's all around." She slapped the wall, hewn from the mountain. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Sinead rushed over, building up her mana and letting it flow over her friend. She would not be able to clear Dagna completely of the alcohol in her system, but she could keep her from sickness and a massive morning hangover.

When she finished, Dagna sat up, holding her head. "The world isn't spinning anymore," she croaked. "Thanks."

"Okay, what happened?" Sinead sat at the end of Dagna's bed.

"Oh, nothing. Well, nothing important. Well." Dagna paused. She pointed at a round shield leaning against her work table. "So my father sent me my family's crest."

Sinead raised her brows. "I thought you aren't on speaking terms."

"We aren't. I kind of asked the Inquisitor if she might send some word to my family. You know, because the things I send never seem to reach them." Dagna took a letter from her night stand, turning it in her hands. "Commander Cullen said they were polite, if not friendly. And they sent the crest."

"That's good news, though, right? They still acknowledge that you're part of the family."

Dagna did not speak, staring at the letter. She was smiling, but it did not reach her eyes. Realization dawned on Sinead.

"Oh. Oh, it means they'll never give you the crest in person. They think you'll never see – I'm so sorry, Dagna." She hesitantly placed an arm around her friend and hugged her.

"It's okay, really. I mean, it's not, but it's going to be." Dagna set the letter down. "When I was younger, I thought nothing of leaving my family. It was something that I had to do to  _know_ , you know? And I don't regret my choice. But sometimes…" she laid down and pressed her hand against the stone. "Sometimes I wish the world wasn't set up this way. There  _has_  to be a better way, don't you think?"

Sinead nodded. "I can stay with you tonight if you want."

"No, that's okay. I…it would be good to be alone for a little while."

Sinead left the room, heart low. She knew what it was to lose a parent, but the idea of being cast out by someone she loved was something else entirely. She felt completely inadequate, unable to think of what she could do to help her friend. It was then that she realized that Cole was nowhere to be seen, having flitted away once they reached Dagna's room.

"Cole?" She wound around the basement hallway, opening doors to store rooms, trying not to get lost. "Are you still down here? Am I talking to myself?" she muttered.

She turned a corner, and found him in a room with its door propped open with a sack. He was crouching in a corner behind a stack of barrels.

"There you are," she said, slightly irritated. "I needed your help. Your help to help, that is, and you weren't there."

"I'm sorry." He did not look up. "I heard someone hurting."

She leaned over the barrels, curious, to find a nug lying on its side, breathing shallowly. Its leg was stuck in a large snap trap. Its ribs showed through its skin, and its nose was dry.

"It accidentally got stuck in a rat trap, poor thing," Sinead said, rounding the barrels and crouching next to Cole.

"He's dying. Slowly." Cole petted its head. "He's starved and thirsty. I didn't feel his hurt until now – it's so small compared to the people upstairs."

"A little water, food and healing, and he'll be fine, I'm sure." She carefully turned the nug on its other side, and gasped. The leg was broken and swollen, red and angry around the trap's metal clamp but blue-green at the foot with blue lines streaked up to the knee.

"He's going to die," Cole said, voice monotone. He was still a moment, then reached behind him and drew one of his daggers from its sheath. Sinead stayed his hand. He gave her a distraught look. "Let me stop the pain, Sinead."

"No. Let me." She placed her hand against the blade. He cocked his head, and when she nodded he cut her.

The power filled her, twisting around her mana. She let out a breath. She had used blood on the sly at the surgery in Kirkwall, for cases that needed a nudge, but it had been a while. She steadied herself and said, "Help me remove the trap."

Cole held the trap open as she pulled the nug's leg gently from the clamp. Sinead examined the leg, frowning. Cole had been right – the poor creature was on the edge of death. Pulling it back would take a lot of energy. She set the leg, frowning deeper when the nug made not a sound. Not struggling against the pain was not a good sign.

"Hurry and get water and food," she said, waving Cole away. "He'll need both immediately when he's healed."

He ran off for the kitchens as she took a deep breath and poured mana and power into the nug. She burned away infection, willed the blood to clear and the vessels in the dying skin to open, strengthened the heart, plumped the muscles, and knitted the leg bone. Cole returned while she was working, and she barely registered him as he set down a small bowl of water and a handful of chopped roots.

The nug began to stir. She held him down firmly, working on the bone until it was healed enough to hold weight. She gave it one last wave of power to set the healing then pulled back. The nug sat up, shook itself, then waddled hesitantly to the water. He sniffed it, then dove for it with many hearty squeals.

Sinead sat back against the barrels. "Feed him one root at a time," she said breathlessly. "If he eats it all at once, he'll get sick." She blinked, trying to force the world from spinning. She had never healed anything so close to death. She felt like she was not quite in her body, like she was dreamily watching through the eyes of a stranger. She closed her eyes, wanting more than anything to sleep.

"He knows we helped." Cole's voice was pleased. "He's happy."

She cracked an eye and smiled. Cole was holding out food to the nug, and it snuffled for it, grunting contentedly. Eventually it stopped, having eaten its fill, and nuzzled Cole's hand before hopping over to Sinead and bumping its head against her knee.

"I think he's ours now," she said sleepily. "We can't let him go free in the Skyhold basements. He'll just get caught again, or worse." She pulled the nug onto her lap. "He can stay in my room. I'll make him up a bed. What should we name him?"

"He has a name," Cole said. "But it would be hard to say if you are not a nug."

She scratched the nug behind its ears. "Then you should think of something we can say that isn't grunts and squeals."

Cole thought a moment. "Dagger."

Sinead laughed shakily. "Dagger? That's more like a war hound name, not something as squishy as this little one."

"My dagger's name is Dagger, and it isn't a war hound." He sounded indignant.

"You named your dagger Dagger? That's terribly sill – oh, no, that makes sense." Sinead laughed again, harder this time. Her strength was returning. She picked up the nug and passed him to Cole. "Dagger it is, then. Come, help me up, and we'll find a box for him."

* * *

Dagger settled in to Sinead's life so easily that she wondered if she should have taken on a pet years before. His wiggling body in her lap as she read, his warm nose pressed against her knees when she called for him, his snuffled snores as she drifted off to sleep. She was worried about letting him out of her room at first, but he willingly followed her when she did.

"He knows you protect him," Cole explained. "Why would he run away when you keep bigger people from eating him?"

Dagna did not quite approve. "It's like making a sandwich a pet." But she tolerated Dagger so long as he did not get too close to whatever drafts she brought to lunch with her.

As the weeks passed the Lady Archivist was rarely seen without the nug trailing behind her as she went about her business in the library, or curled up beneath a great hall table as she ate dinner, or daintily climbing the stairs after her to the rafters of the tavern. The only place he was banished from was Lady Josephine's office – he took too much of a liking to her fine rug and had chewed on one of the ends.

Sinead glanced at that rug now and cringed. She wondered if she should offer to pay for a new one. Or at least repairs, if the rug turned out to be worth more than her salary could afford.

"So these are the research items we are willing to share with the University of Orlais?" Josephine read through the list, brow furrowed.

Sinead brought her attention back to their meeting. "Yes. We don't want to give away too much, after all. But we certainly want to start a cordial relationship. If we swap high-caliber research frequently, someday we may have access to some of the best research facilities in southern Thedas."

"Very well, then. Consider this approved." Josephine made a note and set the list aside. "And Sister Guerrin's research into Tyrdda Bright-Axe's illustrious axe?"

"She will definitely need to do field research," Sinead said. "She needs to see the statue inscriptions herself to have a true idea of where the axe may be located."

"Have her write up a request, and I'll present it to the war table. Finally, have you had any headway with the symbols we found chalked around our camps?"

Sinead shook her head, swallowing her frustration. "It's mystified all of us. We've put our heads together, we've pulled our sources, and Sister Guerrin even contacted some of her…less savory contacts. Nothing. No one's seen this symbol before."

Josephine sighed. "That's worrisome. Another mission for the war table, then. Let me know if you come across anything that might indicate what the symbols mean. Leliana has been teasing me most mercilessly about research over reconnaissance with this one."

Sinead made a few notes on her personal parchment and stood. "Is there anything else you need me for?"

"No, you are free," Josephine nodded. "Thank you, Lady Archivist. Good work, as always."

Sinead left the office mulling over the symbols. It was an exasperating puzzle. They could refer to a new movement, something that had not yet entered lore. But new movements had the habit of being vocal. Surely the Nightingale would have gathered information on them by now if it was some new cult or rebel group. But her books had led to no answers.

She was so lost in thought as she walked through the great hall toward the library that it took her a moment to notice the small group gathered around Varric's usual spot by the fire – Varric, Solas, Cullen and the Inquisitor. At first she was pleased, for the Inquisitor and her closest crew had been gone for a number of days. But something about their demeanor gave her pause. She stopped and watched as the Inquisitor spoke to Solas. Varric then placed a hand on the elf's back. Solas shook his head, said something, and retreated to the library, head bowed.

That's when they caught sight of her. Their faces were grim. The Inquisitor said something to Cullen, then walked up to her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Good afternoon, Lady Archivist," she said with a soft voice. "Let me know if you need anything."

Sinead's heart quelled. "Yes, of course, Inquisitor."

The Inquisitor patted her, and continued on her way. Cullen and Varric were watching her, now, waiting for her to approach them. She walked toward them slowly, every bit of her wanting to run in the opposite direction.  _Something terrible has happened_.

"Sinead." Cullen's face was a mask of concern. And sadness. And he had used no honorific when he said her name.  _Don't tell me_ , she thought.  _Don't tell me what's wrong_. "I am very sorry. I have bad news."

" _We_  have bad news." Varric looked no better than Cullen. Perhaps more tired, as if he was weary of doling out bad news. He picked up a book from his table, a soft-bound journal with singed edges, and handed it to her. "We found it on the Exalted Plains. Next to – well. Didn't really know its importance at first – the Inquisitor kept it on her as a memento of war being a bitch, but that's it."

Sinead flipped through the pages of the journal, barely listening. The dates were varied, the entries mostly recipes for herbal treatments, complaints about weather, wonderings about the landscape. But the script was familiar. Strong and looped.

"Cole was the one who identified the owner of the journal," Cullen continued. "As soon as the Inquisitor knew, she came to me. She knew…she knows we were at the Gallows together, what we both saw, who we…who we both knew, and –"

"Avery." Her voice was cold as stone, and just as emotionless. "Avery is dead."

"I am so sorry, Sinead. I know the two of you were close. And from what I knew of her, she was a good woman." Cullen's voice was filled with sympathy.  _He's good at this. He's had to give this speech before_ , she thought.  _I wonder how many times_.

"I didn't know her, Dusty, but any friend of yours must have been something." Varric placed a hand on her back, just as he had done with Solas. "Cole told us her last story. She was traveling with a group, two families running from the civil war. Kept up the appearance of a regular healer. Then they were attacked by some rogue soldiers looking for supplies."

"She defended them," Cullen said quietly. "She kept them at bay long enough that the families had a chance to escape. But they overwhelmed her."

"I see." She hugged the journal to her chest. "That's…I see."

Everything felt slow and unreal. She felt nothing. Even the panic was gone.

"Dusty, if you need anything – "

She cut Varric off and stepped away from his hand. "I just have to ask. Yes." She nodded at Cullen and Varric. "Thank you for letting me know. Commander. Master Tethras."

She headed for the library door. Varric and Cullen shared a look.

"Sinead, I recommend you take some time," Cullen said, concern coating his words. "The library will be fine without you."

"Thank you Commander, but I'm fine." She nodded to both of them again and closed the door, walking through Solas's office toward the stairs, unseeing.

"So they've told you."

She focused on Solas, who sat hunched at his desk, staring at his hands as if they were his enemies.

"My friend died," she said bluntly.

"Yes. I am sorry." He looked up at her. "I also lost a friend on this last venture. A spirit of wisdom. Fools called her from the Fade and bound her. Corrupted her. It…hurt her too much to continue living."

"I'm sorry," she said mechanically. "That's terrible."

"Lady Archivist, what are your intensions towards Cole?"

That shook her. For a moment a spark of feeling lit within her. "What do you mean? He's my friend."

"You feel nothing more for him? Nothing stronger?" Solas straightened. "I encouraged you to befriend him, but when he speaks of you…you teach him to dance? Read with him? Give him gifts? Your friendship is certainly…robust."

The spark grew into a flare of anger. "What are you implying, Master Solas? And what does this have to do with anything? With my dead friend or yours?"

"It has everything to do with Wisdom. No matter what you or Master Tethras may think, Cole is a spirit," he said firmly. "As such, he is vulnerable to corruption. If anything pulls him from his purpose, he could suffer the same fate as she."

"And you think I'm trying to corrupt his purpose?" Sinead's eyes flashed. "You think so little of me?"

"Of course I don't think that," he said sharply. "But I do think that you aren't acting with caution. A pretty girl showering a young man with attention is perhaps the oldest story of temptation. You think it's impossible him to stray from his true self? With his curiosity, you think he'll never be curious about the girl he's  _befriended_?"

She blushed deeply, her voice gone.

Solas's face softened. "I don't mean to be unkind," he said quietly. "But I have seen many things, and one thing it took me far too long to realize was that our actions have influence. Our very presence in the world sends ripples out, impacting the people we know. I lost a friend to corruption due to ignorance. I do not want to lose another."

The spark of emotion died within her. She felt nothing once more. She nodded at Solas and continued up the stairs to the library.

* * *

It was a simple plan – she could not jump off the Skyhold tower. Her body refused to let her. But she could cut herself. She was so used to a knife's blade against her hands and arms that she barely flinched at the pain. The trick was to cut a wound long and deep enough that it would not clot before she bled out.

Of course she would see to Dagger's care – she left a detailed note on her desk explaining feeding and general care, as well as favorite scratching points. And she did not want to ruin the clothes that Josephine had so kindly purchased for her. She put on her old tunic and trousers and laced up her boots. She waited until the very darkest part of the night, when even the guards would be too tired by their shift to see one dark form on the battlements. Then she picked up the knife she brought with her after dinner, gave Dagger a final squeeze, and slipped from her room.

She decided not to leave a note of explanation. If she wanted to leave the least amount of influence, it was better to say nothing. There would probably be a flurry of activity immediately after her disappearance. Some restructuring in the library. But then life would go on, as it did after her mother's death. After the mages of Kirkwall had been slaughtered. After Avery's sacrifice.

At the top of the tower, she climbed on top of the wall and sat on its edge. She pressed the knife against her arm, angling it lengthwise and holding her arm out over the black distance to the ground. The blood would flow from her, flow to the snow below, and when she no longer had the strength to hold herself up, she would tumble from the edge. There would be no mess, nothing for anyone to find. She would simply be gone, no longer a threat to any who met her. It was a perfect plan, a perfect death.

But her hand refused to make the cut. Frustratingly, it was frozen, the deep fear of death keeping it from doing its duty. She took a breath.  _Now is not the time to be a coward. End it._

A hand covered hers. It did not grasp, or squeeze, or try to take the knife. It only enveloped her hand, soft palms and callused fingers around her fist. She did not look at Cole, did not want to lose her resolve.

"When did she die?" She stared out at the darkness.

"Eight days ago."

"Why didn't you tell me when you knew?"

"I did." He said it quietly. "The blackness spilled over, and I made you forget."

"I told you not to do that anymore."

"I know."

She took another breath. "If you're here to help, then help me with the knife. I'm too weak to do it to myself, it seems."

"You can't hurt me, Sinead. Solas is wrong." His voice pitched up, pleading. "He says things from a place of hurt. He was afraid. Don't let his hurt harm you."

"It's not about  _you_ ," She said firmly. "He was right. My actions have influence, and I've already caused enough harm in this world. It has to end."

"Avery chose to leave the Circle. She wanted to help."

"Did she die afraid?"

Cole hesitated. "Yes. But fear wasn't as important as keeping them safe. She made her choice, the choice she wanted, the choice she needed the strength to make. You gave her the strength, and she was glad of it."

"She left the Gallows because of me," she said mechanically. "She said so herself. If not for me, she'd be safe and sound at Skyhold."

"Maybe. Or maybe dead at Haven. Or dead at Kirkwall. And the families would be dead because she wasn't there to save them." He leaned over her. "She made her own choice."

"Too many choices," she muttered. "Too many paths that could be taken, too many possibilities. Too many chances to interact. Even if I hide away, I'll make ripples wherever I walk. But if I'm gone, then at least I can do no harm. I am no longer a variable, and the world spins on without me."

She made a decision. The knife was sharp, and eased into her skin. Blood dripped from the wound.

"She hated the thing that grew inside her." Cole's voice, husky and low, stopped her from cutting further. "It was a waste of life, a reminder of what she lost. He was gone, taken by the Crows, too quick were they against him, and now she carried the thing, the parasite. She would leave it in the woods to die, or give it to the Chantry. Yes, that was it. She survived their orphanages, so could this pitiful creature."

She looked at him finally, bewildered. "Who are you talking about?"

"And then she came, through blood and pain and ripping and screaming. And when the old woman handed her the babe, a full head of black hair on a red, writhing body, his eyes looked back at her and she wept. The child was hers, his last gift to her. She would never let anyone have her, by force or by death. She would live and she would thrive, even if her own blood had to be spilled." Cole looked her in the eyes, his own eyes shining in the light of the crescent moons. "Sinead would be her name, his mother who fought for him, a good name. And fuck the Crows and anyone else who dared get in her way."

She swallowed, her hand loosening its grip on the knife. "That's not fair," she said, her voice trembling. "That's not  _fair_ , Cole."

"You aren't allowed to die like this," he said simply. " _She_  wouldn't allow it."

Silence stood between them. Slowly she turned her fist and opened it, letting the knife rest on her palm. Cole took it and tossed it over the wall. Her arms fell to her sides and she bowed her head. She had failed.

"The blackness still spills over."

He was distressed, but it did not matter. Nothing really mattered. She climbed down from the wall, unseeing, feeling empty.

A tiny nose snuffled her feet. She blinked, and made out the outline of the fat, round body of Dagger. She kneeled and ran her hand over his smooth skin. Dagger snorted happily and snuggled up to her knees.

The blackness cracked, and slivers of emotion leaked through. She gathered Dagger into her arms, her tears finally flowing. Dagger licked at her cheeks as she cried quietly, then he wiggled away as Cole sat next to her, rubbing his head against Cole's hand.

Sinead lie on her back and spread her arms above her head, staring up at the silent stars. "This world is shit," she said, voice thick with sadness. "Good people die here for bad reasons, and people are cruel and hard. Why do you stay here? Why not go back to the Fade, where the world can be whatever you like it to be?" She turned her head, catching his profile in the dark. "If I could stay there, I would. I'd make a garden and fill it with flowers."

"I stay because I want to help." Cole pulled Dagger onto his lap. "And you wouldn't want to stay in the Fade. Everything can shift and change, but it is always the same. Here there are friends, and nugs, and words, and stars."

"And death and bitterness and blackness and fear."

"And griffons and tea and people who want to be better than what they are now and people who are better than what they were then."

She sighed. "There are no more griffons, though."

"That's not what the griffons think."

Against her will she smiled. "What do the griffons think?"

"They are ready to stop dreaming. They want to fly."

She was quiet a moment, tracing the constellations in the sky, thinking of griffons and fear and Avery wanting to do good things where she was needed.

"How far away are the stars, Cole?" she asked suddenly.

"So far that their light tells lies."

"Is that where the Beyond is?"

"No." He nearly whispered the answer. "That's much further away."


	17. Amulets and Beauty

The weeks passed, and though her emotions were still muffled by the black, Sinead went through the motions of life – eating, work, meeting with Dagna and Varric and Cole (she made a point of avoiding Solas – his words still stung her in the part of her that still felt). She waffled between sleeping little and winding away the night hours with her books spread before her on her work table, and sleeping far too much, the sun high in the sky before she made an appearance in the library. Dorian teased her gently when she slept in, calling to her "good morning miss afternoon", but no one faulted her for her erratic schedule.

It bothered Sinead that no one called her out for her behavior. Everyone, save Cole, was irritatingly gentle with her, as if she were made of spun glass. She wondered if Cole had spoken of her moment on the tower, but refused to ask for fear of the answer. After a few weeks, in defiance of this treatment, she forced herself back to her regular timetable, forced herself to make jokes and laugh, forced herself to carry on.

To her surprise, the normalcy was a comfort, and slowly the blackness receded like waters from a flood plain, leaving her raw and bare and aching. But these feelings she knew, like old friends who promised to never leave her. They were better than the emptiness, better than the blackness. She held them close, and knew that the blackness had not yet conquered her.

Even better, the blackness had not stolen Avery's name away. She whispered it from time to time just to make sure, gaining pleasure from the saying the syllables. She sneered at the blackness where it squatted in her mind.  _Can't let you have everything, can we_? She thought.

One day, after her emotions had returned to her fully, she wrote Avery's name on a piece of paper and fed it to a candle at the feet of Andraste's statue in the Chantry garden chapel. She mourned for her friend, just as she mourned for the other friends she lost. Just as she mourned for her mother. But she was willing, now, to continue on without her. Avery's journal she had not touched, the pain still strong enough in Sinead to make it impossible to read. But it sat on her mantel, waiting for the day she would open it and see the story of Avery's last days through her eyes.

* * *

The gossip at Skyhold was grim. The Grey Wardens had made a deal with one of Corypheus's agents, and were doing disturbing, terrifying things – sacrificing each other to bind demons to their thrall. Digging deep in the earth like darkspawn to find sleeping archdemons, supposedly to kill the demons before they woke. They were either mad or misled, and the Inquisitor was gathering her forces to lead an attack against Adamant, the Grey Warden fortress to the west.

"I've been working double time to get enough weapons and armor enchanted before the big push," Dagna said one day at lunch, the bags under her eyes speaking of her late nights in the Undercroft. "Everyone wants a sword that can made things freeze at the touch, or a bow that shoots fire. And yeah, okay, who wouldn't want a bow that can shoot fire, but maybe ask me a few weeks before a battle's planned?"

"Is this you cranky?" Sinead asked, amused. "I didn't think you were capable of cranky."

"Who said I was cranky? I'm making bows that  _shoot fire_ ," Dagna said cheerfully. "I'm just making observations about productivity and stuff. I'd be more useful with more sleep, you know?"

"Fire shooting bows is all well and good, but I do worry about the demons," Sinead said, thinking of her friends who would be at the front lines of the assault. "I know a sword or an arrow can kill as swiftly as a bolt of lightning from a Pride demon, but an armored soldier can deflect the arrow or sword better than the lightning without a charm or a spell."

"Oh, damn, amulets." Dagna slapped her forehead. "I need to make a bunch of amulets!"

"That's not what I meant," Sinead said quickly, her stomach sinking. "You're already barely awake. Don't increase your workload just because of me!"

"Naw, it's okay." Dagna waved her off. "Here, I'll make a list. You gather up what I need, and that will be a big help to punch them out before they ride for Adamant."

Sinead gave orders to Sister Guerrin to watch over the library then ran around the rest of the afternoon, talking to the merchant and the requisition officer for Dagna's materials. Near the end of the day she had everything Dagna needed, and she stayed up with her friend as Dagna worked through the night to finish her orders and the amulets, fetching her tea and sandwiches upon request.

Dagna put the final touches on her final projects a few hours after dawn.

"Okay, I need to talk to the requisition officer and the Inquisitor," she said loopily. "And then I'm going to sleep for, oh, about a day. But here, help me out will you?" She looped five amulets around Sinead's neck. "Can you deliver these for me?"

"Who to?" Sinead asked, turning one of the amulets in her hand.

"Cullen, Dorian, Varric, Solas, Cole," Dagna said with a yawn.

Sinead raised her brows. "Are they special?"

"No, everyone's getting the same amulet. But come on, you can't let your friends go without saying goodbye." Dagna poked her arm. "You don't grow up in the smith caste and not learn to say goodbye to the people you care about who go off to war. That's what I'm doing today."

Sinead's heart squeezed. "Thank you, Dagna," she murmured.

* * *

Sinead set to work doing as Dagna demanded, Dagger trotting behind her as always. She went first to the tavern, but did not find Cole in the attic. Thinking she'd catch him later in the day, she went out to the battlements and made her way to Cullen's office. She waited outside his door as he spoke to a few of his officers, and slipped in as they left.

"Commander," she said, nodding and removing one of the amulets from her neck. "Dagna told me to deliver this to you. A protection against demon magic."

"Thank you, Lady Archivist." Cullen took the amulet. "Are you – that is to say, you look a bit less…stressed than the last time we spoke."

"I am," Sinead said quietly. "Please stay safe, ser."

"Be well, my lady. This is but a small assault in the scheme of things." Cullen smiled. "But it's good to know someone hopes for my safe return. Thank you."

She walked across the battlements to the library, took an amulet and placed it in Dorian's lap.

"What's this? Not exactly my style, my lady."

"Oh, please, as if you could refuse anything shiny," Sinead said with a laugh. "It'll keep you safe against magic. Wear it and come back."

"I'm not even in the front of this attack. Don't worry, I'll be fine," Dorian said, easing back in his chair. "Let me get back to my nap. Have to be well-rested."

She walked down the stairs to the great hall, approached Varric from behind, took off an amulet and threw it over his neck.

"Huh. A necklace?"

"Magic protective amulet," Sinead prompted. "It goes well with your…chest?"

"Thanks, Dusty," he said, examining the amulet. "Don't worry, I'll be wearing this thing until I'm back at Skyhold. I'm all for anything that'll protect against magic. I'm running with the Inquisitor for this one, and she's all about the direct approach."

Finally, she faced the door to Solas's office. She wanted to save him for last, not looking forward to speaking with him, but Cole had ruined that plan by not being available. She straightened her spine and walked through the door.

Solas looked up from the parchment he was taking notes on. His eyes widened. "Sinead." He put down his quill. "I…we haven't spoken in some time. It's good to see you in my office."

"Hello, Master Solas," she said coolly. "I hope you're well."

"As well as I can be." He cleared his throat and let a silence settle between them.

"I believe I owe you an apology," he said finally. "When I spoke to you last, I said things that came from – from a dark place. Not that it excuses my words. I should never have questioned your intensions toward anyone. You are an honorable young woman."

"Thank you for the apology," Sinead said, still cool. "But I'm still angry at you."

"Understandable."

"You accused me of some very nasty things the very moment after discovering my friend's…my friend had died."

"That I did."

"So you can't blame me if I don't really want to talk to you at length right now."

"Of course."

"That said." Sinead look off an amulet and placed it on Solas's desk. "I don't want you to die. You're the first person I could call friend in the Inquisition, you know. Please wear this when you go to Adamant."

Solas picked up the amulet and held it in his palm. "An elemental charm," he said appreciatively. "Thank you, Lady Archivist."

"And when you come back, perhaps you can help me with a translation that's been pestering me," Sinead continued. "If you are available."

Solas smiled. "You need only ask, my lady."

She walked stiffed back out the door to the battlements. Once the door was closed, she sagged, relieved. She was, indeed, still angry, but anger was an exhausting emotion. She looked forward to spending time once more with Solas, digging through ancient texts like two spelunkers in a deep, unknown cavern.

* * *

Cole was in none of his usual haunts. She checked the kitchens, the basements, and the healing tents. She looked again in the tavern attic. She walked around the stables. Dagger, always at her feet, began to lag from this unusual activity until she finally picked him up and cradled him as she checked the kitchen again and then walked back to the stables, frustrated.

"Are you looking for Cole?"

Sinead turned to find a black haired, bearded man staring at her, arms crossed. She had never spoken to Grey Warden Blackwall, given that he did not frequent her library often and she rarely found herself in the stables. And the man was somewhat intimidating, with his grizzled face and his perpetual frown. She had seen him with Varric and The Iron Bull and the elf girl, Sera, in the pub from time to time, but she was far too self-conscious to insert herself in a crew like that.

"I am," she said, hugging Dagger. Dagger took no notice of her nerves and laid his head on her shoulder with a snort.

Blackwall nodded. "Of course. I figure a lady like you wouldn't be around the stables without a reason. You're the one that slips away to his hidey hole every night, right?"

"I-um, I don't… _slip_ -"

"Mmmhmm." He shrugged a shoulder. "He's up in the loft. Always stay clear when he's up there. Never know what's going through the head of that one."

She nodded her thanks and escaped up the stairs. Yet another person who knew about her when she thought the world generally ignored her. It unnerved her.

Cole was peering out the loft window at a young man mucking out the stalls. He held a finger to his lips when Sinead approached.

"What are you doing?" she whispered.

"That's Bastion," he whispered back. "He loves John, the other stable hand. But John loves Alison the kitchen girl, and even if he didn't he can't love Bastion."

"Poor Bastion."

"Yes. But Frederic is the new smithy apprentice, and  _he_  could love Bastion. They both like horses, and hitting things with hammers, and wrestling, and jousting. And they are both kind to small things."

"You're playing match maker?" She covered her smile. "Goodness, how dramatic. How will you get them to meet?"

"I told Frederic to ask Bastion about horseshoes. And then I made him forget."

Just then, a swarthy young man with a strong upper body entered the stables and asked Master Dennet for Bastion. Bastion looked up from the stall and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

"Aye, that's me," he said.

"Oh, good. See, I've been told to ask you 'bout what shoes I should make to shod the Inquisitor's mount. It's a training task, see."

"I'd think Master Dennet would be the one to ask," Bastion said, glancing nervously at his master.

"I believe the damned smithy is testing the meddle of my training," Dennet grumped. "Not the first smith I've come across who thinks little of the knowledge of the men and women who actually care for the damned horses when it comes to shoes. Go on and tell the boy what you know, lad."

"W-well," Bastion stammered, "It depends on the mount she's using, doesn't it? I'd say any horse she rides will be happy with a cob shoe, but the harts probably need something extra. Lightweight creatures, are the harts. Maybe an onion shoe or an egg-bar. The bog creature, I'm not so sure of." He glanced at the undead horse and shuddered. "I think maybe some boots are enough for it, just so's the bones don't start showing through the legs."

Frederic cracked a grin. "You do know your shoes."

"Yeah?" Bastion smiled nervously back. "Well, you need to, don't you. Have to keep the horses safe and happy."

The two young men paused, fidgeting.

"What are they thinking?" Sinead whispered.

"They both want the other to ask him to meet up for ale," Cole whispered back. "And they both want to ask, too, but they don't know how to say the words right."

"Do you want-" "Maybe when the day's done-" the young men blurted at once. They stopped and laughed nervously.

"Andraste's knickers, lads, you both have chores to do," Dennet snapped. "Stop mooning at each other and get back to work. You especially, Bastion. There are still three more stalls to clean out before midday."

"Aye, Master Dennet." Bastion gathered himself. "Want to grab an ale later? Talk horses?"

"Yeah, sound's good." Frederic waved and walked off, leaving a beaming Bastion whistling as he shoveled the muck.

Sinead smiled widely. "What a beautiful thing you did," she said. "Even if they don't fall for each other, perhaps they've made a new friend."

"They each like the other already." Cole leaned against the window frame. "Bastion liked Frederic's arms. He thinks they're strong. Frederic likes Bastion's whole face. He thinks him handsome. Usually when they both think the other is beautiful, they'll couple eventually."

"I admit, I'd never thought of you as an expert on love," Sinead said jokingly.

"I'm not," he said matter of factly. "Love is hard. There are so many feelings that go into it – want and desire and hope and compassion and comfort and anger and jealousy and trust and pain and joy. And even if the bad feelings are stronger than the good, the love can still be there. Coupling is easier – they think someone is interesting and beautiful, and then they come together." He cocked his head and examined her. "Except you. You're beautiful, and you don't couple."

Sinead blanched, and then flushed a deep red. "I'm…that is, what…I don't…"

"That's what some think of you when they see you," Cole said in his calm voice. "They think you are beautiful. Some want you very much because of it. But they never ask. Is it because they know you don't want anyone?"

"This is one of those things I don't want to hear about," Sinead said, scrunching up her body and looking away. "Or talk about. It's embarrassing."

"Because you don't want to be seen as beautiful, I know. But they can't help thinking it because the left half of your face looks the same as the right half and your eyes are large and light brown and your skin is mostly unmarked and your teeth aren't too yellow and mostly straight and your hair is black and thick. All of that is true, so you must be beautiful."

He pondered the rafters for a moment. "It is strange that the outside of the body is so important. It just holds all the important things in, but if it's too big or too small or shaped a little differently a person is called ugly. Looking isn't important, but it is." He looked at her. "Am I beautiful? Or handsome?"

Sinead covered her face. "Oh, no."

"I asked Dorian, and he  _says_  I'm all right. But he thinks my nose is too big and my hair is too long and my body is too thin. I don't know why he lied."

"Because he's your friend," Sinead said weakly. "Most people don't want to hear that they aren't nice to look at."

"I'm not nice to look at?"

"That's not what I meant! Maker, this is awkward." She spread her fingers so she could see him. "I don't know, Cole, truly. You look nice to me, because I know who you are. Looking doesn't matter always. There are those who are handsome outside whose looks are marred because the ugliness of their soul shows through."

"Like Rein?"

Sinead let out a breath. She did not speak for a moment. "Yes," she said finally.

Cole nodded. "Why did you come to find me?"

"Oh!" Sinead took the last amulet from around her neck and handed it to him. "Dagna made it. It's supposed to help keep you safe from magic, especially fire. I'm sure rage demons will be the most common – they're the easiest to bind, and – well, wear it when you go to Adamant, please."

"Thank you." He looped it around his head. "I will try not to die."

"Don't just try," she said firmly.


	18. Humanity

A tickling on her nose made Sinead surface from sleep. She brushed at it, saying "Dagger, it's not yet dawn. You'll have breakfast soon." But instead of Dagger's soft ears, she felt a hand. The shock of it snapped her awake, and she sat up, pulling her quilt around her.

Cole crouched at her bedside, looking up at her from under his hat. He was dressed in his armor, the padded leather and chainmail jacket he wore when out campaigning with the Inquisitor.

"You're back," she said happily. Then she tensed. "We received the ravens three days ago that the campaign was successful, but it didn't say anything about lives lost. Is everyone all right?"

"Some men died." She held her breath. "None you know."

She let out the breath. "I'm sorry for those who died," she said sadly. "Their poor families."

"They died helping."

"They did. But I wish they hadn't." She pulled the quilt around her tighter. "I am so happy to see you safe and sound. But it's still dark. Surely the army is not yet at Skyhold? Are they not camping?"

"I ran ahead," Cole explained. "It's lonely in camp when everyone is sleeping. There's nothing to do but guard duty. And on guard duty I'm not allowed to watch the stars move."

"Running home to avoid guard duty doesn't sound very helpful," she said, amused.

"I ran home to help." He climbed on her bed, kneeling on the end, and took her hand, holding it palm up, fingers spread. "I need your help to help."

She was stunned. It was the first time Cole had touched her without immediate purpose. He had taken her hand to stop her from hurting herself or to help her up, and allowed her to touch him the first time they met, but never had he outright reached for her when he did not need to. She was not sure what to think, aside from worry. Concern clenched her chest.

"What's wrong?"

"The Wardens hurt people. They hurt spirits. They killed their own to bind demons, to make an army, and the spirits could not say no. They were ripped from the fade, forced to fight, hurting and helpless."

"That's horrible."

"Yes." He pulled a dagger from its sheath. "And it can happen to me." He placed the dagger in her hand and curled her fingers around it. "It  _will_  happen to me. Someone will die, and someone will call for me, and they will make me into something terrible, twisted, tormented. They will use me to hurt people. Please help me. Please make it so that never happens." He placed the edge of the dagger against his arm.

Alarm swelled within her. "What are you asking me to do?" She tried to pull away, but he held her hand steady.

"I need you to bind me. Don't be upset," he said quickly. "I knew you'd be upset if I asked. But you have to, Sinead. You must, or else I could hurt people. Please, I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Absolutely not." She nearly shouted the words. Dagger's head shot up from his basket by the smoldering fireplace, and he whimpered. "I could never bind you. Do you understand? Never. Do you even know what you're asking of me?" She shoved Cole away and threw the dagger on the ground.

Cole hopped off the bed and picked up the dagger. "I do know. I know it will hurt, but it will be better than me hurting someone. I'll be  _safe_."

"You'll be warped," she snapped. "Corrupted. You can't use blood like that and not have big consequences. It doesn't take a life to bind, I don't know why the Wardens were binding that way, but it takes a part of the spirit. Something essential, something…something that makes the spirit  _whole_. And then the Veil thins, and the demons start whispering – this is a mad idea!"

"Being whole doesn't matter, not hurting people matters." Cole was pleading, holding the dagger out to her handle first. "And I won't be corrupted if you do the binding. You want to help. So do I. I'll be a part of you, helping for you. I'll be happy."

"You'll be mindless, a slave. You won't be able to act without my order." She spoke with disgust, scrunching her face and shaking her head. "It won't just be you that would be corrupted. How could I do such a thing and still be me?"

"No, it won't be that way. You will still be you, just with me attached." He began to pace, clutching the dagger in his hand so tight that his knuckles went white. "I was the one who asked, I was the one who wanted it. You will help me help, protect me from others who would bind me, keep me from being used to hurt."

Sinead slipped from her bed and stepped in front of him, blocking his pacing. She gently pulled the dagger from his hand and set it on her bedside table, then took his hands and squeezed them.

"I swear on my life, if anyone binds you, I will seek them and you out, and I will free you," she said firmly. "I will never let you be someone's thrall. And I know Solas and Verric and the Inquisitor would certainly not allow it, either. Your friends will keep you safe."

His hands went limp in hers. He gave her a sad look. "A monstrous murderous abomination. That is what will be left of me. It will be better to kill me."

"Oh, Cole. I could never –"

"I know. But others can." He pulled away, picked up his dagger and sheathed it. "I will ask Solas when he returns."

"He doesn't even practice blood magic. He'll never agree to it."

"I have to try. I won't be free until I'm safe. I won't be safe until I'm bound. It has to be this way."

He disappeared then, before she could protest. She sighed and kneeled next to Dagger, petting the nervous nug until he yawned and curled up tight with a contented sigh.

"I wish Cole was as easy to calm as you," she murmured, kissing Dagger on the head and returning to bed.

* * *

Solas, as Sinead predicted, refused to bind Cole, though Cole told her later that he did offer the solution of an amulet that could keep a spirit safe from bondage. As agents of the Inquisition sought the amulet, Cole kept scarce, halting his usual activities around Skyhold. He was nervous and fidgety, barely able to concentrate on a story or conversation when she came to visit him.

"Won't be safe, won't be free until the amulet is found," he'd murmur, clenching and unclenching his hands.

"They'll find it soon," Sinead soothed. "You have been safe up to now. Adamant changes nothing."

But her words fell on deaf ears. Cole would not be pacified.

It worried her, the way he obsessed over his potential danger, so much so that she was distracted from events that would normally take all of her attention. The Inquisitor had gone physically into the Fade, Varric at her side, and she did not think to question him about his experience. Not that he minded – he found the whole event unnerving. Meanwhile Dagna could speak of nothing else, excited at the prospect of gathering samples from the area where the Inquisitor entered as well as from the Inquisitor herself. But all Sinead could think about was her kind, selfless friend, distressed and hidden away in the attic of the tavern for what he felt was the good of everyone.

Sinead was swamped the day the amulet arrived at Skyhold, questions about her research into Dalish temples stealing her attention so that she barely had enough time to glance over the library railing to see Solas working with the amulet. She missed the spell that would activate it for Cole completely, much to her regret - such an amulet was an oddity in conventional Circle teaching, and anything that would boost her knowledge of spirits was exciting. But most of all she welcomed the idea of Cole's distress being quelled by the amulet's protection. As soon as she was free, she ran down the stairs to fully interrogate Solas.

But Solas was gone, as were a few of his essentials from his desk. Confused, she left the office for the great hall and found Varric whistling merrily as he prepped his crossbow for a journey.

"You're cleaning Bianca," she said. "Are you heading out to the field?"

"In a sense." With a small tool he tightened the bow string slightly. "The kid's amulet isn't working. Her Inquisitorship, Chuckles and I are gonna try to help him figure out why."

Her brows raised in alarm. "What could possibly keep the amulet from working?"

"Chuckles thinks something is weighing the kid down. We'll see." He shouldered Bianca. "The kid's got a feeling whatever it is is in Redcliffe. I've got to go, they're all waiting on me. Wish us luck."

"Luck, I suppose." She gave a little wave as he walked away, worry filling her.

They did not return that day, or the day after. Her worry grew. What would Cole do if the amulet did not work and they found no solution? Would he run off, never to be seen again? Would he have the Inquisitor put him down? Surely the Inquisitor would refuse such a request, as would Varric and Solas.

But others would not. It was well known that the elf girl Sera had no love for Cole - she did not even address him by name or pronoun. She may gladly make a pincushion of Cole. And there was Lady Vivienne, who Sinead willfully avoided and (thank the Maker) Sinead was too artless and unimportant for the lady to seek out. The cow was a Circle hardliner, and thought of anything from the Fade as unnatural. She would likely take a request for death from Cole as a delight and turn him to ash before the words were out of his mouth.

Stomach twisting with worry and unable to find sleep in her room, she worked in the library, candles burning low, until her head dropped to her work table in exhaustion, Dagger resting on her feet.

It was here late on the third day that she heard the door to Solas's office open. Murmurs rose from the office, soft and unintelligible. Sinead slipped her feet out from under Dagger and padded to the railing, watching the proceedings below.

Varric, Solas and the Inquisitor spoke in low voices, so she could not hear. Suddenly Cole hobbled through the door, limping and holding his stomach. There was an exchange, and Varric led him from the office, patting his back. The Inquisitor shared a few words with Solas and left soon after. Then Solas sank into his chair, shaking his head.

Fearing the worst, Sinead ran down the stairs, skidding into Solas's office.

"What's happened?" she asked breathlessly.

Solas looked up in surprise. "You're still awake? It's very late, Lady Archivist."

She waved a hand, knocking away his question. "What's wrong with Cole? He looked unwell. Did the amulet fail?" Her panic rose. "Did someone bind him?"

"Of course not." Solas's voice was calm, but sad. "Cole is…not used to experiencing pain for himself. It was a difficult journey back. We only arrived a quarter hour ago."

"Experiencing pain? I don't understand." She marched to his desk, slapped her hands down and leaned over it. "Tell me what's going on, Master Solas."

He was quiet a moment, collecting his thoughts. "I was right – the amulet did not work because something in this world kept Cole weighted down. An old wrong that he could not make right. I recommended that Cole forgive the wrong and forget it. Let it go. Thus he would be free. Light. Closer to his spirit nature than he's been in years. And the amulet would work." He rubbed his forehead. "The Inquisitor and Varric chose…a different path. They chose to ground him in humanity."

Sinead stepped back in shock. "What does that mean," she whispered. "Will the amulet never work? Can he be bound?"

"I…don't think he's a risk for binding, no," he said slowly. "I hope that I am right. But it comes with consequences. Cole is no longer able to sit above the pain of existence, helping others when he feels  _their_  pain. He's fully mortal now, with all that it entails."

Sinead relaxed in relief. "He's safe, though."

He gave her a look. "Yes, safe. And hurting. Think of the pain you are capable of feeling. The names you say are lost to your speech, the darkness you've said weighs down your thoughts. Would you wish that pain on anyone? No, you don't have to answer, I know you would not. But it's the plight of existence in this reality that we cannot escape pain. And yet, here was a being who could exist in our world without causing pain or feeling pain, a unique young man who escaped our curse. A blessing for our friend. But now…"

"Now he's just like the rest of us," she said quietly. She closed her eyes, feeling the blackness that rimmed all her thoughts, even on her best days. "Poor Cole."

* * *

Sleep did not come for her that night. She stayed on in the library long after Solas left for his quarters, scribbling away at a translation, switching to reading when her mind refused to focus on ancient elven. Finally, being too frustrated by her disquieted mind to stay in the library, she picked up her candle and her cloak, gave the sleeping Dagger a quick pat, and walked out onto the battlements for some fresh air.

The sky was black-blue with the promise that the sun would soon return. Neither Luna nor Satina showed their faces and the heavens were awash with stars. She sought out the constellations as she walked, lulled by the cold winds rustling the tufts of hair that fell from her braid. She decided then that she would make her way to the tavern attic and speak to Cole. If he was indeed in pain as Solas said, then she must help him as he had helped her at her worst moments.

As she passed Cullen's office, she took notice of a soft echo coming from the direction of the exercise yard. Curious, she walked down the stairs to the yard, wondering who else was awake so early. The yard was lit by the lanterns of the Herald's Rest, and she blinked as her eyes adjusted. As she neared the practice dummies, she recognized the hat and the lanky, quick form of Cole. She stopped and watched him throw dagger after dagger into a straw form, hitting dead center or chest or arms or legs by design, then sprint to the dummy and remove the daggers, tossing them back across the yard hard enough that they stuck upright in the soft sod.

"I've never seen you practice before," she said finally. "I imagine it must be hard to hit the dummy in the dark."

He looked up, startled.  _Now_  that's  _odd_ , she thought.  _Didn't he hear me thinking_? _Didn't he feel me_?

That was not the only oddness. His movement was less fluid – it was still quick, still graceful, but it was as if he had to put more thought into where his body was supposed to be. And she slowly realized that the green tinge outlining him that she had grown so used to, the aura that almost seemed a trick of the light, was gone.

She approached him cautiously and raised her candle, studying him. His gray eyes were hard and shining, and he was looking at her.  _At_  her, not  _through_  her.  _Was this the cost of humanity? Was it more than the pain of living?_

She realized her mouth was hanging open. She snapped it shut and frowned. "What happened?"

"I found the man who killed me. Who killed…Cole." He murmured. "I wanted to kill him. I wanted him dead. I wanted him to feel Cole's pain." He gripped a dagger in his hand so hard that his fist shook. "Like knives in the stomach, skin cracked, crying for help but no one hears. Varric gave me Bianca. He cowered in front of me. He begged, and I  _liked_  his begging. I  _wanted_  it. Then I pulled the trigger. I watched him know his death had come."

She was silent, eyes wide with dread. Solas said that the Inquisitor and Varric went in a different direction than forgiveness. Was the death of this man what they chose?

Cole shook his head. "I didn't kill him. There was no bolt loaded in Bianca. Varric did it to make me see. Killing the Templar won't bring back Cole, won't undo his pain, his death. What's done is done."

The last words he nearly spat in anger. He swung around and gutted the dummy, leaving the dagger buried deep in the straw. Then he trudged over to the daggers buried in the ground, pulled one out and flung it at the dummy's head. Sinead jumped as the dagger hit its mark with a thwap.

She took a breath and approached him again, setting down the candle and stopping his hand as he reached for another dagger. She took his hand between hers.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm so very sorry."

His face softened. "Everything hurts," he said, his voice straining. "And they say there's no end to it. How can I help if I'm hurting?"

"How do Varric or Solas or the Inquisitor or Dorian or any of your friends help? You take it day by day. The pain never stops, but you learn to ignore it. Other things become more important than the ache of living. You can do this. You know what it takes already." She reached up and tapped his forehead. "Strong mind." She pressed a hand against his chest. "Strong heart."

He paused then nodded slowly. "You keep the blackness at bay by being curious, questioning, captivated by queries. I…I can do the same. I can still help. I can help the helpless." His eyes hardened in anger. "And kill the killers."

She had seen that look before. That fury mingled with pain, and something more. Determination to cause death. It flooded her, images of Rein's eyes when he killed the qunari Sten, when he railed against Meredith's oppression, when he argued that the children must stand and fight. All that anger, that yearning to inflict pain. To kill with malice.

She dropped Cole's hand and stepped away, panic flooding her. Dizziness overwhelmed her as her chest clenched, and she dropped to her knees and placed her head against the earth, trying to slow her shallow breaths.

Through her panic, she felt Cole kneel next to her. She reached out and grabbed his arm, squeezing as the worst of the fear gripped her, making her shake, seizing her heart. She forced her breathing into a regular pattern, and the panic ebbed, leaving her trembling. She raised her head, brushing dirt from her hair, exhausted.

Cole was stricken. "I hurt you," he said quietly, removing her hand from his arm.

"You didn't." Her words were slurred, her head not fully clear.

"My hurt causes hurt. My pain causes pain." He jumped up to standing, pressing his fists against his temples and pacing. "How can I help if I'm causing pain? I…I can't help you if I hurt you. I-I have to go."

"Wait!" She called out as he ran off, but he did not look back. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "Andraste's mighty bollocks, that could have gone better. Stupid, stupid me."


	19. Friendship and Road Trip

He was avoiding her. At first she thought it was in her head, that it was a coincidence that whatever haunt of Cole's she visited she was helpfully told that she had just missed him. "Oh, the nice young man who helps the girls?" the cook said, "he was just here a moment ago, but he ran off." Or, "Aye, I saw 'em, he helped muck a stable then said he had other things to do," Bastion the stable hand said. "Funny, he looks familiar, but I swear I haven't met him before a week ago."

Aside from learning the interesting fact that people were now remembering him, her search was fruitless. She finally admitted to herself that she could not find Cole because he did not want to be found. And she would not allow that to continue.

One day she put Sister Guerrin in charge of the library "for a pursuit of a personal nature", then climbed the stairs to the tavern attic with a stack of books, a bag of sandwiches, a jug of small ale and a chamber pot. She hunkered down in a corner with a candle and waited.

It was well after dinner before Cole finally made an appearance. The tavern was growing rowdy, hiding the sound of his soft footsteps on the stairs. She did not know how long he stood on the last stair staring at the floor silently before she noticed him.

"I thought you'd never come," She closed her book and stood, approaching him cautiously. "You'll not run away?"

"I told Varric that you wouldn't leave the attic. He told me I had to talk to you," he muttered.

"Good." She crossed her arms. "You're avoiding me."

"Yes."

"Stop."

"I can't. I'll hurt you."

"Perhaps. That's the risk one takes when one cares for another. Sometimes there is hurt." She kept her voice low and soothing. "But hurting someone you care about does not mean you have to cut them out of your life. It's not that simple."

"But I made the blackness come." He hunched his shoulders. "I made it spill over. I may do it again, and now I can't make you forget."

"You'll avoid me forever because of the blackness?" Her anger sparked. "Maker damn the blackness to the Void." Her voice pitched high as her anger flared. "It's taken my voice and it makes me fall in a state of panic and it may someday take my life if there's no one to stop me when it takes away my feeling, but I'll be Andraste's new lover before I let it take my friends, too. Are you not my friend?"

"I  _am_  your friend. That's why –"

"That's why you ran off and left me alone in the dark? Hm? No, you did that because you're scared. I'll not have anyone scared for me. And you'll not be the one to decide who I can befriend because of the Maker cursed blackness, thank you."

He finally looked at her, gazing at her through his lank bangs. Her anger cooled. His face was a mix of grief and anger and confusion and worry.  _He's been muddling around for days, and I know not how bad it's been because he shut me out,_  she thought.

"I'm still angry." He said it with his calm, matter of fact voice. "I want to hit things. I…I want to kill things."

Her heart sank, but she forced herself to rally.  _You'll not panic again_ , she told herself furiously. "Do you think it's good that you want to kill?"

His confusion grew. "Good to want to kill?"

"Do you think your desire is a good thing? Something you should foster? Something you'll use to excuse the deaths you cause? To excuse the deaths of good people who don't agree with you?" She prodded him in the chest. "You may want to hurt people, but will you do it  _with malice_?"

Recognition bloomed on his face. "No. Varric made me see. It…it doesn't change anything."

"Then you're already better than many of the people in our army," she said firmly. "And I don't think any of them are particularly evil, either. You may be angry, but unless you let it overwhelm you, it's just…" she waved her hands around, searching for her words. "It's just part of being human."

There was a moment of quiet as what she said sank in. As she realized that she was telling the truth – his anger did not worry her, so long as he did not let it rule him.

Cole visibly relaxed. "Then you really aren't afraid."

"I've never been afraid of you," she said stoutly. "I'm not about to start now, just because you've gone and made yourself more real." She placed a hand on his arm. "You are one of my very best friends, and I'll not lose you."

He smiled. It was small, and sad, but her heart leapt. It was a start.

"Come on." She took his hand and led him to her book pile. "I've been reading a set of stories that I think you'll like. All about a fellow who helps by stealing from wealthy nobles and giving the gains to the poor. And he's an archer!"

"Oh." His face fell. "I don't know if I can see how you make it real. It's…harder to hear now. Like seeking the sea's secrets through a spyglass, dim, distorted, distant."

"Well." She sat and opened her book. "Then you'll have to do what everyone else does, won't you?  _You_  will have to make it real."

"But it's just symbols assigned sounds for me."

"Is it?" She smiled. "Why don't we find out if that's still true?"

She began to read out loud, and as the story progressed, a mystified look crossed over Cole's features.

"It's all there," he whispered. "Symbols assigned sounds become something more, something real. But the stories are so sad."

He sat next to her, listening intently to her voice.

* * *

A little over a week later at her meeting with Josephine, Lady Montilyet suggested something that made Sinead drop her quill in surprise.

"Val Royeux has given us carte blanche to sort through the White Spire's archive to add to our collection?" she squeaked. "How was such an arrangement made possible? How did the University of Orlais not protest?"

"Think of it as a perk of preventing the assassination of the Empress and an army of demons overrunning the land. Orlais has much to thank us for. And the University actually welcomes our intervention in this matter," Josephine said. "Apparently the White Spire has been closed off from all academics for fear of some of the magical artifacts that are within its walls. It's thought that the Inquisition has the capability to avoid unfortunate accidents, and of course we've said we'd share anything of academic value with any who ask."

"This is incredible." Sinead threaded her fingers into her braid, stunned. "This could make our collection one of the most sought after in Thedas. The amount of knowledge kept within the walls of the Spire is – it's sure to be  _vast_ , my lady."

"Then you have quite a task set before you." Josephine began marking on a parchment. "We'll have the good sister take charge of the Skyhold library while you're in Val Royeux. Master Tethras has agreed to use his connections to make arrangements for shipment of materials and laborers to help move what you choose, so he will accompany you."

"I'm the one going?"

"Of course. Who else can we trust with additions to the library's collection?" Josephine folded the parchment and as she sealed it with wax and signet ring, she said, "Cole will also accompany you."

Sinead sat back in surprise. "Cole?"

"Aside from Lady Vivienne, he has the most knowledge of the Spire's layout. He claims there are a number of lost artifacts in the basements. You may wish to follow up on that claim." She handed Sinead the parchment. "This will get you anywhere you need to go in Val Royeux. Good luck, Lady Archivist. And," she smiled, "have fun."

Sinead left Josephine's office, suspicious. She headed directly for Varric's spot by the fire and placed the parchment atop a journal he was scribbling in.

"Cole, you and I are going to the White Spire?" She crossed her arms. "And you're funding part of the expedition? Just who gave Lady Montilyet the idea to ask if we could ransack the tower's archive?"

"Okay, you caught me." Varric raised his hands. "I convinced Josephine to finagle you a way into one of the best off-limits libraries in Thedas. How is this a bad thing again?"

"Were you also the one who put Cole's name forward as a companion on this journey?"

"Well…"

"I have half a mind to burn that manuscript you're working on to a crisp," she hissed. "You want to bring him to the place where the worst moments of his life happened? The death of apostate Cole? The killing of the innocent apprentices? What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that the kid needs some closure." He tapped his journal. "And go ahead and burn it if you want. I'm working on Swords and Shields. But you'll have to answer to Cassandra."

She raised her brows. "I thought he had closure when you kept him from murdering that Templar."

"No, that just sent him down a path. Closure will take a little more than an unloaded crossbow." He handed her the sealed parchment. "Listen, the Inquisitor has helped him work through a few things. Took him on a little outing. But she doesn't have the time to give him everything he needs to move on. Chuckles has all but washed his hands of the whole thing – he offered his help, but I don't think the elf knows how deal with him. And everyone else is either still afraid of the kid, or doesn't get him, if you know what I mean."

She twisted the parchment in her hands. "Unfortunately I do."

"I bet you do. Come on, Dusty I need  _help_. The kid needs to face his past, and he needs to learn that there's more to life than feeling like shit all the time. I figured giving you access to a bunch of old books would be a worthy payment." He held out his hand. "You in?"

"Of course I am." She shook his hand. "Though you could have said something earlier, you know."

Varric grinned. "But that would have ruined the surprise."

* * *

The next few days Sinead was in a tizzy, listing tasks for Marcel and reminding Sister Guerrin of the who's who of the visiting nobility and their reading preferences. She tagged and labeled her research to ensure that she would remember where she was in the process when she returned, and she recruited a few servants to help move and reposition shelving so that contractors could add more during her absence.

She also found herself in the strange position of packing for a trip when she had more than the clothes on her back. She thought to simply wear one outfit over and over again while in Val Royeux until Josephine gently suggested that, for appearances sake, it would be best to bring a selection of ensembles with her. Josephine went so far as to bring in a tailor to fashion up a few extra outfits more in line with Orlesian fashion.

"We want to keep your look distinct, of course," Josephine explained. "No full skirts, no corsets. But perhaps a couple of bodiced blouses and skirts? A dress? And a hat or two?"

Sinead allowed Josephine to play with her wardrobe, but she firmly refused the hats.

Finally the morning of the journey came, and her goods were packed atop an Inquisition carriage. She circled the cabin and the large horses tethered to it, marveling at its size. It seemed strange that she, Cole and Varric would travel quickly over the landscape in the contraption – she had never traveled across land before on anything but her two feet.

Varric sidled up to her, Cole following behind dressed in his armor.

"I can't believe I'll be sitting the whole way," she said, standing on her tip toes to look through the cabin window.

"Enjoy it while you can. It gets old quick." Varric grinned. "Not as old as running through the woods, though. This'll be a nice break from that."

"I don't like carriages," Cole said. "The world whooshes past to fast to see. Everything muddles."

"Well, it's not going to be any more comfortable all suited up like that, kid. Why are you wearing your armor?"

Cole pulled down his hat so it hid his eyes. "The White Spire isn't safe."

Sinead and Varric exchanged a look.

Varric cleared his throat. "Let's get this trip over with. After you, my lady." He gave Sinead an exaggerated bow.

She rolled her eyes and settled in with her pack filled with books, quill and ink. The men loaded in, the driver called out to the horses, and they were on their way.

To Sinead's annoyance, the road was exceedingly bumpy. It made sense through the mountain terrain, but when they cleared the foothills and still the carriage bounced around like a will o' the wisp, her mood turned sour. Her hands and arms were tired of trying to keep her book steady, and there was no way she could write her thoughts down as she planned – the ink would spill everywhere if she opened the lid.

Cole and Varric seemed oblivious to the bumps, the former looking out the cabin window without a word for hours, the latter reading through notes and papers and occasionally marking things with his strange featherless quill with ease.

They stopped for lunch to stretch their legs and eat a light meal of cheese, fruit and bread, then continued on, Varric pulling out a set of cards and asking for a game of Wicked Grace. It did not go well – Cole kept asking about cards in Varric and Sinead's hands, and Sinead had no face for bluffing. So finally Varric sighed, packed up his cards and went back to looking over his papers. Sinead shook her head as he pulled out his quill.

"How can you work in such conditions, Master Tethras? I can barely read, let alone write, from all the jostling. And I haven't seen you use your ink well once this entire trip!"

"I grew up in a wealthy merchant family, so this isn't my first time in a carriage. You get used to the movement." Varric looked at his quill, then at her. "And I'll tell you a little secret, but you keep it to yourself. This is priority information, and if it gets out before it's introduced to the market, the merchant guild will hang me by my feet." He pulled another quill from his pack and handed it to her. "This is a pen. There's a reservoir inside it that holds ink. Just shake it a bit, and you'll get it to flow."

"This is extraordinary." Sinead turned the pen in her hands, her face lighting up in delight. "What a marvelous innovation!"

"A pretty good one, yeah." She tried to hand it back to him, but he waved her off. "Keep it. I have more."

"Thank you so much." She gleefully pulled a piece of paper from her pack and scribbled on it, making a noise of wonder as it filled with marks. She smiled broadly at Cole, who had turned from his window reverie to watch their exchange.

"I'm glad you like it. I'll show you how to fill it when we stop at the inn tonight."

"Varric, did you know Sinead likes your chest hair?" Cole said it casually, as if he were talking about Sinead's favorite color. "Sometimes she wonders what it would feel like to run her hand through it."

Sinead dropped the pen in shock. Her face bloomed red, her mouth hung open.

Varric chuckled. "Well, that's, uh. An interesting piece of information."

"He likes your hair too, Sinead. He thinks the color is striking and likes it when it comes loose from the braid and frames your face."

"Maker preserve me." Sinead covered her eyes and shrank in her seat, not thinking of druffalos.

"Why aren't you thinking of druffalos?" Cole was distressed. "What did I say that was wrong?"

"Boundaries, kid. This is one of the times you crossed them." Varric was not unkind when he spoke, but he was firm.

"But I don't understand. You think she's beautiful, she thinks the same of you. Why can't you come together?"

"He has a love already, is why. And – and –" Sinead sputtered to a halt, too embarrassed to continue.

"Attraction isn't quite the same thing as love," Varric finished.

"But your love  _hurts_  you, Varric. And Sinead doesn't want anyone else. Wouldn't it be easier to couple with each other than not?"

Varric sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes as Sinead covered her head with her arms. "That's not exactly how love works, kid."

Sinead jumped up and banged on the roof of the carriage. "I need a short break!" she cried.

The carriage slowed, and she jumped out before it stopped, running off into the empty, rocky plain and hiding behind a small outcrop. She sat and covered her face, taking a few deep breaths. The panic wasn't rising, but she felt unsure of what to do. Riding in the carriage with Varric seemed nearly impossible.

 _One quick admiration of a well-formed chest that is always on display and my life is ruined_ , she thought.  _I suppose I could run until my legs can't move anymore and take up residence where I drop_.

"Sinead?"

She looked up. Cole was crouched atop the outcrop, looking down at her.

"I'd like to be alone, please," she said, voice strained.

"Varric says I need to apologize. I'm sorry." His voice was filled with misery. "I thought I was helping."

"How is it helping to tell Varric that I think he looks nice?" she seethed. "I can't look at him now, let alone share the same space."

He hopped down and crouched beside her. "You're my friends. You make each other happy. You think the other is attractive. Why can't you couple?"

"Because I  _can't_." She curled her hands around her knees and hid her face in her legs. "I do think he's attractive, yes. He's nice to admire. But he's my friend. Only. Always. I…I don't  _want_ …I can't."

"But why? He tells me that he loves Bianca and no one else and I  _think_  I understand. But why can't  _you_  love?"

"Because it hurts to think about," she blurted. "It's too much. You said so before yourself – everything that goes with it, the want and desire and hope and compassion and comfort and anger and jealousy and trust and pain and joy. It's too much."

"Oh."

"And I certainly can't fall in love with someone just because he likes my hair," she snapped. "Why is it always my hair? Or my face? Is there nothing else that's lovable about me but the shape of my head and the tresses that spout from it?"

"I like what's inside your head most, but I like your hair," Cole murmured. "I like it when you set it just so, because it pleases you – braid bound 'round the head, pins placed perfectly, blackness borne back by good memories."

She flushed. "Well. Thank you."

"Please come back to the carriage." He stood and offered his hand. "I am sorry. And Varric doesn't mind. Lots of people like his chest hair."

"I don't know why that makes me feel better, but it does," she muttered, taking his hand and letting him pull her up.

Varric was pointedly silent for the rest of the day's journey in the carriage, then struck up a conversation during dinner about his newest manuscript that Sinead found she could not avoid being drawn into. The next day they traveled on without incident, embarrassing or otherwise.


	20. Val Royeaux

The sun had set by the time they reached Val Royeaux, but that did not deter the city's inhabitants from walking the streets, for enchanted lanterns lined the walkways and made the white marble sparkle as if it was midday. Sinead peered out the cabin window at the city's wide boulevards, marveling at the men and women in the highest fashions pausing to talk to each other or to hide away in the many walled alcoves available for a quick  _tête_ - _à-tête_.

"Everything is so clean," she said, fascinated. "How on earth do they keep it so? Even Hightown was never this clean."

"Comparing Kirkwall to any city's not in Kirkwall's favor," Varric said.

The carriage slowed and stopped in front of a grand structure with a façade of arched pillars, and winged lions peering down from intricately carved ledges. The driver called out to a young, uniformed boy waiting by the doors, and the boy hopped-to, running through a set of large wooden doors.

"This can't possibly be the inn." Sinead looked at Varric, aghast. "I thought you preferred hovels that smell of old ale and smoke."

Varric shrugged. "I do, but Ruffles insisted. We're Inquisition representatives, so apparently we need to make an impression."

Suddenly the doors flew open, and a large, smiling man with half his face hidden away under a white mask with golden trim approached the carriage, arms stretched wide in welcome. Six staff followed behind him, three young men who started on the luggage, one who opened the door to the carriage, and two maids who stood with heads bowed near the inn's entrance.

"Welcome, Inquisition. I am Henri Bonheur, and it is an honor to have someone of your stature staying with us at Le Voler Lion, Lady Archivist." He held out a hand and bowed. "I can only hope our humble rooms are worthy of such great beauty."

Sinead froze, eyes wide.

"Take his hand," Varric whispered.

"You're the famous one, not me," she hissed.

"But you're the more important Inquisition rep. I'm just a consultant.  _You're_  the lady."

It hit her like an arrow in the chest.  _Maker help me, I'll be playing The Lady the whole time I'm here._

She straightened her back, thought,  _Do it for the Inquisition,_  and took Bonheur's hand. "Thank you, Monsieur Bonheur," she said lightly, smiling and stepping from the carriage. Varric and Cole followed behind, one with an easy gait, the other like a shadow. "I'm sure the rooms will be lovely, given Le Voler Lion's reputation."

Bonheur perked up, following beside her as she walked toward the doors. "You have heard of my establishment?"

"Of course," she said, thinking quickly. "Why do you think Lady Montilyet contacted you?"

Bonheur nearly floated as he attended to their arrival, snapping at the young men who carried the luggage and stacked it neatly in two adjoining rooms, and rushing the maids as they began unpacking clothing. He led the three of them to a dining hall, pulling out Sinead's chair and kissing her hand as she sat, then calling over a harried waiter to take their order, then sent the waiter off to fetch a bottle of wine.

"I shall leave you now, Mon Cher," he said, bowing again. "Please enjoy your dinner."

Sinead sagged a bit in her chair then straightened as the waiter returned to pour three generous glasses of a deep, red wine.

When he left, Sinead picked up the glass and took a few steadying gulps. She coughed. The wine was very dry.

"Andraste's twisted left foot, I don't know if I can handle that much… _muchness_  the entire time we're here."

"You did fine," Varric said easily, then finished off his wine. He took Cole's glass and sipped at it more leisurely. "I didn't know you could do that. Slip into a role like you did. I've wondered how you deal with the more annoying nobles that visit Skyhold. Making them feel like being in your presence is a gift works."

"But I have to keep it up," she grumbled. "I'm no play-actor."

"It's just a mask, Dusty, like the ones in this restaurant." Varric waved at a neighboring table, filled with bemasked Orlesians. "Put it on during the day, take it off when you get back to the room and be your regular dusty self. You'll be fine."

"Like Vivienne."

Sinead and Varric looked at Cole, who had said not a word since they entered the walls of Val Royeaux.

"He speaks. I thought you were trying to make us forget you," Varric joked.

"She puts on a callus, cool mask to hide her concern," Cole continued. "She thinks concern is a weakness, decking herself in detached distance during the day, but putting it away in her own apartments."

"How sad."

"Not if it kept her alive," Varric said amicably. "The Game is serious business around here. But I think you're safe from that kind of dedication."

That was not quite true. After dinner and wishing Cole and Varric a good evening, Sinead was startled to find a young woman in her room.

"Good evening, my lady," the woman said with a curtsy. "I am Mathilde. I shall be your lady's maid during your stay. May I help ready you for your bath?" She motioned a hand at a steaming copper tub.

"Uh, no, I can undress myself," she stammered. "I don't have a lady's maid, you know. It's not something I need."

Mathilde arched a brow. "I believe that's not true. Trust me, my lady, you will want help dressing in the morning to make the very best impression. More than one dignitary has told tale of the beautiful maidens of Skyhold. Now that one has flown down from the mountains, sans Inquisitor, the nobles are curious."

Sinead blanched. "You're joking. I'm a librarian, for Maker's sake!"

"Yes, the lovely lady in her tower library, the Inquisition's Madame de la Lotus Noir."

Sinead was sure if she had the power to kill across great distances, at that moment poor under archivist Marcel would have burst into flame where he stood. Instead, the fire crackling in the hearth flared.

"Well, I won't dismiss your help, if that's what you're offering," she said, despondent. "As long as I get to bathe and undress for myself. I've had the option for that kind of help before, and it's always felt strange to me."

"As you wish, my lady," Mathilde said with a smile. "I will leave you now. Have a good evening."

As soon as Mathilde left with a curtsey, Sinead stripped, undid her braid, and stepped into the steaming tub, sighing with relief as she felt two days of sweat and grime melt away. She stayed in the tub until the water cooled, then sat in front of the fire, drowsily braiding her hair for sleep. She could barely keep her eyes open as she staggered to her bed, falling into one of the cushiest mattresses she had ever laid down on. There was a hint of panic at the back of her mind, a feeling that this was all undeserved. That there were people hurting and starving while she lived in luxury. But her exhaustion kept her panic from surfacing, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Mathilde woke her with a breakfast of hot porridge and honey and strong tea, then threw aside her bedclothes and hurried her into her clothes. It was something more risqué than Sinead had ever considered wearing – a soft, slim, cerulean dress with a built in, deep violet bodice and thin sleeves like a tunic. It hit her at the ankles, but had a slit on each side that hit her hip. Underneath the dress she wore white hose, the thinness of which made her feel nearly naked when she moved. Beneath the bodice was a white shirt with thin, tapered sleeves that puffed at her shoulders. The collar was scooped and ruffled. Mathilde tightened the bodice until Sinead's small breasts practically floated, then sat her down and braided her hair in intricate rounds so quickly that she was sure Mathilde was some sort of hedge mage. She rolled the ends of the braids into a twist with Sinead's hairpins, shoving everything together so tightly that Sinead could shake her head and not a wisp appeared at her brow.

As soon as she was finished, Mathilde curtsied and opened the door for Sinead. "Have a good day, my lady," she said with her arch smile.

"Thank you, Mathilde," Sinead said, smiling back. "Let's see if your help keeps me from being the laughing stock of Val Royeaux."

She exited the room and found Varric and Cole waiting for her at the hotel's entrance. She stifled a giggle of disbelief, covering her mouth with her hand. Varric was dressed in his typical coat and low-cut tunic, but Cole had been given the Val Royeaux treatment. He had on a gray doublet that hit him at the waist, a blousy shirt with large sleeves and narrow cuffs and dark gray trousers that poufed out at the ends of a set of black boots that stopped mid-shin. His daggers were strapped to a thick leather belt rather than his back. Most surprisingly, his hair was fluffed up and light around his head instead of lank, and his bangs only brushed the top of his eyes. He held a gray hat that could only be described as jaunty – the wide brim was flipped up on one side.

"Why?" is all she could gasp out without laughing.

"The valet insisted," Varric explained. "Apparently armor isn't necessary in the White Spire library. And he was adamant about making sure the kid had a bath."

"I take baths," Cole said defensively.

"I told you before, a shower in a cold waterfall or swimming in a lake isn't the same as warm water and soap, kid. Anyway, he gave in because why?"

"The valet was so happy. It helped to let him help," Cole said, pleased.

The carriage rolled up to the entrance, and the doorman hopped into action and opened the cabin door. Cole and Sinead climbed in.

"Okay, the two of you don't get into too much trouble, by which I mean don't get into too much trouble, kid. I'm off to meet a man about a thing."

"I should say you are the one who shouldn't get into too much trouble, Master Tethras," Sinead said with a grin. Varric laughed and waved them off.

The morning light made the marble of Val Royeaux shine so bright that Sinead was almost blinded as she watched the buildings pass by. Her excitement grew with every turn they took. The idea of the White Spire loomed large in her mind – one of the finest Circles in Thedas outside Tevinter, with a history of collecting centuries' worth of knowledge in its archives. It had been abandoned at the beginning of the rebellion by mage and Templar alike, and the Chantry had locked it down for fear of it becoming an outpost for war or a target for looters. The last time it had been accessed, the Inquisition used its halls to store a trove of Chantry volumes.

As they pulled up at the base of the White Spire, her mouth dropped open. Every visage she imagined was dashed. The size was unthinkable, and reminded her of the colossi of Kirkwall for pure wonder at its construction. It was not so much a building as a vast estate, the eponymous Spire brushing the sky. A wide set of stairs led to wide, open double doors.

"This is incredible," she said, smiling at Cole. Immediately her pleasure cooled. Cole was buried in the seat, not looking out the window. "Are you all right?"

"No." Cole looked down and put on his hat. "I can still hear it – the way the Fade sings around this place. It isn't a happy song. It isn't safe here."

She took his hand and squeezed it. "We'll only be in the library for now. Nowhere else. Come." She pulled him from the cabin and linked her arm through his. "Let's see this White Spire for what it is now."

At the top of the stairs, a number of young men and women mingled in the Spire's vestibule, chatting. Some leaned on staffs. A tawny-haired mage of around thirty looked up and clapped his hands as Cole and Sinead approached.

"All right, students! The guest of honor has arrived." The mage smiled and took Sinead's hand, shaking it enthusiastically. "It is a sincere pleasure to meet you, Lady Archivist. I'm Enchanter Finn, an archivist for the University of Orlais, as well as their master linguist. These are students of the University who have volunteered to help us sort through the Spire's library." Fin was bubbling over with anticipation. "You have no idea how exciting this is for us. The Spire's knowledge has been banned from us for nearly four years now!" He took Cole's hand and shook it vigorously. "And you must be the lady's escort. Welcome, ah –"

"Cole," Sinead said, hiding a smile as Finn's enthusiasm was dampened by Cole's curious, unsmiling scrutiny. "He's one of the Inquisitor's close friends and happens to be familiar with the White Spire. He's been gracious enough to agree to be our guide if we need it."

"Oh." Finn leaned back and dropped Cole's hand. "Are you Tranquil, Cole? No, you don't have the sunburst mark, sorry for suggesting – but are you a mage? You have no staff, but I see the Lady Archivist doesn't, either…"

"I'm not a mage," Cole said, looking up at the tower. "I'm the ghost."

"I…see," Finn said, bemused.

"And I don't use my magic to a level that needs a staff often," Sinead explained, further amused by Finn's confusion. "I thought it would be cumbersome to bring it all this way."

"A practical conclusion," Finn said, his enthusiasm rising again. He gestured to the inner doors. "Shall we, my lady?"

Sinead nodded and walked on, Finn matching her step. Cole followed behind, head down but eyes flickering around the first chamber. The students came last, chattering excitedly.

The first thing Sinead noticed as they climbed a flight of stairs was how thin the veil felt. "Goodness, one could reach out and touch the Fade," she murmured.

"They say that spells come easily in the White Spire due to the veil's frail protection," Finn said, nodding his head. "It's not surprising that so many spirit mages have walked these halls. It must be nothing to call up a wisp or a benevolent sprite."

"Not nothing," Cole murmured. "A sudden song, a summons, and suddenly sounds and sights and senses unknown."

"Yes, I suppose the spirit would consider the shock of this world more than nothing." Sinead smiled at Finn sweetly.

"Ah, well, but what are spirits but a dream of the Fade? The Maker's mistaken children," Finn said, waving his hand in dismissal. "Intriguing creatures, but not much else but pure emotion."

"Catamont," Sinead said coolly. She glanced back at Cole, but he made no sign of hearing Finn's declaration. "How…unexpected for a University of Orlais staff member to be quoting that traditionalist."

"You've read Catamont?" Finn was delighted, ignoring Sinead's slight. "I haven't met many who can stand his rather dry style. He's a traditionalist, but there are gems among his, ah, stalwart conservatism."

"A cock that crows every hour crows at dawn eventually, I suppose."

"Yes. exactly." He stopped in front of a darkened doorway framed by two lanterns. "Would you like to do the honors, my lady?"

Sinead held out her hand and turned it over. The lanterns flicked on, as did every lantern past the doorway. A large, square two-story library lay beyond, shelves stretching to a domed ceiling. Her eyes widened.

"Maker's breath, it's wonderful," she said, forgetting Finn and Cole and the students, and stepping out to the center of the floor, staring up.

"An amazing challenge," Finn agreed, joining her and looking around. "The treasures this library must hold…"

Sinead snapped out of her reverie. She pointed at the students. "You two, find the catalogs. We need to know what we're working with. You, the one with the parchment, you're in charge of noting everything the Enchanter and I decide we need. Make sure to list if we both want a book, for I imagine we'll be haggling. Up the ladders for the rest of you. You'll be our fetchers. Okay." She smiled at Finn. "Let's get to work."

* * *

Every day of the next week followed the same schedule – Mathilde brought Sinead breakfast, dressed her, and she and Cole traveled to the Spire. There the students, Finn and she sorted through the books, first through titles that were known that Finn and Sinead argued over, then a more thorough search of titles that were unknown.

Every night when Sinead got back to the hotel, she would find invitation after invitation waiting for her to join nobility for dinner. Mathilde would dress her up, and Varric would accompany her to dinner parties around the city, leaving Cole to wander as he would.

"I don't understand the masks over masks," he said when asked the first time if he wanted to attend a dinner. "And I don't want to."

The dinner parties were a chore, but she found they were no less necessary a task than sorting through the archive. The nobles were curious about the Inquisition, and to not attend a dinner would be seen as a slight. Her actions were not only hers, they were the Inquisitions, and had to be in the Inquisition's favor. She realized at the same time why Josephine was so insistent about her wardrobe.

Varric shined at these events – the famous novelist drank heavily, gambled freely, and generally charmed the nobility with his studied roughness. Meanwhile, she put on the mask, as Varric suggested, making her tone confident and being sure to smile prettily at the attention she received.

When she returned to the hotel, exhausted from the tiny part of the Game that she was forced to play, she gratefully readied herself for bed and waited for the small knock from the adjoining room. Cole came every night with a cup of tea in hand and a book from her personal collection. She would read aloud until the words blurred and she fell into a deep, contented sleep.

As the days passed, Sinead grew to enjoy Finn's sarcasm and the pleasure he found in knowledge. He shared the same love of the obscure texts, as well as an impressive knowledge of languages. When he discovered her fluency in ancient Tevinter, as well as her knowledge of Elven, he began cracking terrible jokes in the languages to see if he could get her to laugh while the students stared on, confused.

"You have a Ferelden accent, Enchanter," she said one day. "How did you end up at the University? Were you assigned to the Spire before the rebellion?"

"No, thankfully," Finn said as he sorted through a pile of tomes on the floor. "When the vote came down for rebellion, the Circle Tower became a madhouse. At first the Loyalists thought any who disapproved of the rebellion could stay at the Tower. The rebel mages disagreed, as did the Templars. Oh, there were plenty of Templars who didn't want to see us burn or turn Tranquil, but when you're facing an army at both sides, there's not much you can do. Most of the Loyalists joined the rebellion out of fear. The rest of us fled, hoping to find refuge somewhere. It was a hard journey, but I managed to make it across the Frostbacks to Orlais. From there it was a fairly easy journey to Val Royeaux, aside from the brewing civil war and the rogue Templars and the blood mages." He chuckled. "To think there was a time when the site of my own blood made me faint."

"Why Val Royeaux? This is practically the heart of the rebellion."

"The heart! Would that not be Kirkwall?"

"Kirkwall was merely the spark. The White Spire is where the fire became out of control."

"Honestly, all I was thinking of was a clean, quiet library and a good meal," Finn said with a shrug. "I had wanted to visit the University of Orlais since I was a child. They were suspicious at first, but after I showed them my credentials, they were happy to take me on as an instructor and archivist. But enough about my journeys. How did you join the Inquisition, my lady? There are stories, but the Orlesians add flourishes to their tales that are entertaining, but inaccurate. I assume you didn't stop marauding Templars in Kirkwall with your beauty, or speak ancient spells that healed dozens in an instant when Haven fell."

"Goodness, they tell  _stories_  about me? I had heard I've been mentioned in some circles a time or two, but stories…"

"You are the kind of woman who leaves an impression." Finn looked up from the pile. "That's not what I meant to say. I mean, you are an impressive person, and – well, Orlais enjoys being impressed."

Sinead flushed. "Well, I promise the most I've done is putter in a library aside from the few years I stumbled around surgeries that lacked decent healers. And I don't consider myself among the 'decent.'"

"There must be more to it than that. There are stories that circulate about your time in Kirkwall –"

"It's not a time I enjoy talking about," Sinead said quickly. "I lost…there were friends. People. That I lost. It was a dark time."

"Of course," Finn said kindly. He cleared his throat. "So, this copy of  _Ferelden's Fine History Magnificent_  is ours, I think."

"Absolutely not," Sinead said, thankful for this change in topic. "My Sister Guerrin would knock me about the head if I didn't bring it back to her."

"Then you'd best be ready to haggle, for I have a love of Ferelden history that rivals Guerrin, trust me."

And so the days passed, each filled with work that lasted until late in the evening, but a satisfying sense of accomplishment. Every night Sinead fell into bed, tired but happy, her mind clear and her sleep dreamless.

The only person who wasn't enjoying this ransacking was Cole. He guarded the doorway, growing increasingly jumpy, as if waiting for something to come out of the shadows.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," Sinead said one day, worried about his state of mind.

"I do," Cole said matter of factly. "The White Spire is dangerous."

"Everything that gave it its danger has been gone for a long time," she soothed.

He gave her a look like she was crazy. "You don't hear the song? It grows louder every day you're there. They're watching."

This spooked her. The only logical  _They_  was demons, and the idea of them peering through the veil, eyeing the mages like hungry predators gave her pause. But nothing more than a heated argument over a particular tome broke out in the library, and she set aside this warning, thinking that the task was nearly complete, save for searching the basement for lost artifacts.

* * *

One evening as they were on their way back to the hotel, Sinead contemplating dining with the vacuous and vicious Lady Fantelle, Cole sat up straight and knocked on the cabin ceiling. The sharp rapping jerked Sinead from her thoughts as the carriage stopped.

"What's going on?"

"I have to show you." Cole climbed out of the cabin and took her hand, leading her down a lantern-lit path around a corner.

"Wait for us, please!" Sinead called to the driver before he disappeared from view.

He led her on down a street, and through a wall with a stone arch entryway, and suddenly greenery stretched off before them. Trees climbed into the sky and lamps lined a cobbled pathway. The moons were out and full, and the greenery took on a blue hue in their light.

"How lovely," she said gleefully.

"I found it yesterday when you were at dinner," He said, pleased.

She released his hand and ran down the pathway into the trees. The insects hummed in the summer air, and little winking bugs floated like wisps on the wind. She slowed to a walk, taking deep breaths, soaking in the scent of forest.

"It's been so long since I've seen anything so flourishing," she said as Cole caught her up. "The woods around Haven were scant and cold. And I've seen enough open plains to last my lifetime."

Cole stopped her as she turned to go down a split in the path. "People come here to couple in secret. If you don't want to see, go left."

Sinead nodded, thankful, and continued on. From time to time the path split, and Cole led her down the paths he considered safe. They broke out into a clearing covered in wildflowers, their colors deepened by the night. Sinead walked into the clearing, her smile growing with each step.

"I haven't seen so many uncultivated flowers in a very long time," she murmured, reaching down and plucking a poppy.

"I know. I thought you'd like to see them."

"You thought right." She took his hand and pulled him into the clearing. "Come on, let me show you how to make a crown!" She sat down, fanning her skirt out pulling him down with her, and started gathering poppies. "My – I was shown how when I was little. See, the trick it to make a loop, like so." She tossed a bundle of flowers at him. "Go on."

He crossed his legs and watched her hands carefully weave the flowers together, then followed suit, his nimble hands quickly creating a chain.

She laughed. "I know it's been some time, but you don't have to show me up so blatantly."

"Your mother was better at making them than you, too," he said, not slowing his pace. "The chantry sister at the orphanage who showed her how noticed her nimbleness and thought she would be a weaver. Instead she took to the knives. Thieving paid better. She was very good at it."

Sinead's hands trembled as she looped another flower. "I didn't know that story."

He looked up from his chain. "It hurts to know."

"Yes. But it also helps." She paused for a moment as she worked on her crown.

"When I was a child, I was curious about everything. I wanted to know how the world worked and why, and how to do every spell, and what every word in the world might be. But I was never curious about the people I loved the most. I was very selfish."

"They didn't want you to know their pasts," he said calmly. "They thought the future was more important. When you asked, they'd ask you questions back, and soon you'd forget what you wanted to know."

"Not selfish, then. Just thoughtless." She smiled sadly at her chain.

"Sinead, do you like Finn?"

She laughed and rubbed the wetness that had gathered at the corners of her eyes. "What a time to ask. Of course. He's a nice person."

"And you think he's handsome?"

"You're not going to blurt out my deepest, darkest thoughts about his cheekbones when next we see him, are you?" She asked, amused. "I can only handle so many professions of attraction before I melt into the floor in embarrassment."

"No." He shrugged. "He does like you, though. He wants you, in his way. Why don't you want him?"

"Why should I want anyone? I told you before, it's too much."

"But-"

She held up a hand. "Tell me, ser, why have you suddenly taken an interest in my love life? You've never been so adamant that I find a lover before."

He twiddled with the flower chain. "Love helps the blackness. I've seen it in others. It dams the desolation."

"And you think I don't have enough help? I have my work. I have my friends." She poked his shoulder. "I have you. I don't want to fall in love because I feel I need to. That sounds like a wretched way to find a lover. Besides, my life is fuller than it has been since I was a child. I'm quite happy."

"But the blackness still comes." He hunched his shoulders. "I've tried to help, but it always comes. If you loved someone, it may end, and then you would never need my help again. I want to help you not need help."

She thought for a while before she spoke again, threading the stems of the poppies together.

"I've had the blackness for a long time now, long enough that I've wondered if there were others like me. I was not wrong. Leave it to Tevinter to define it – they call it melancholia. It's a rather unpleasant syndrome. Affects people differently, but always leaves the same emptiness. And unfortunately, it can be chronic." She finished off her crown. "There may be no end to the blackness for me. And that is the way it is."

Cole threaded the last of his stems and turned the crown in his hands. "It isn't fair. That you should have it always. That you can be both happy and sad at the same time. It's too complicated."

"It isn't  _too_  complicated. It's just complicated enough to make things interesting." She took off his hat and placed her crown on his head. "There we are, Prince Cole of the Fade. Worry not about whom I should love and why. And worry not about the blackness. There are others who are far more forlorn to think about."

"I…will try." Cole placed his crown on her head, careful to keep it from getting caught on her hairpins. "A crown atop a crown, lighter than a king's, more comfortable than a divine's, but ephemeral and fleeting."

"That's quite poetic of you."

"It's what the crown is."

"It's lovely all the same," she said, smiling.

He smiled back, the small smile that made his features light up and his gray eyes lose their solemnity without losing their questioning, searching quality. The moonlight washed out his white-blond hair so that it shined like a halo around the dark red circlet of poppies. He played with a loose flower on his lap as he watched her, spinning it between thumb and forefinger. Sharing his gaze, Sinead realized that she was happier than she had been in her entire life. It was only a moment, a brief flicker of time, but in that moment she felt a sweet ache in her chest, and the blackness cleared off to distant realms within her. It was a moment that was both eternal and agonizingly short.

"Come." She stood, wiping her skirt, and reaching for his hand. "We should get back to the driver. I'm sure he doesn't want to wait forever for two silly kids."


	21. A Speck of Light

Val Royeax was having a festival – a celebration of the final conflicts of the civil war coming to an end, the Dales finally safe from roving soldiers and demons awoken by undead abominations. All of Orlais knew the Inquisition was behind the stability of both the throne and the countryside, and invitations to balls on the day of the festivities created a small pile in front of Sinead's door, to her dismay.

"Are we the only representative of the Inquisition invited?" she asked Varric frantically after dinner one night.

"Probably not, but the Inquisitor's been busy flushing out the Venatori in the west, and everyone else has their own job to do – no time to make it here before the festival. We're the only ones in town, so I guess we should chalk this one up to doing a favor for our mutual employer."

"But I can't attend all of them, and I have no idea which ones are the 'right' ones to attend, or even what that means! And I'll have to play-act all day, without a moment to think." She kicked the seat in front of her and threaded her fingers into her braid.

Varric cocked his head. "Tell you what, Dusty, why don't I take care of the diplomatic stuff this time? You've been working hard for a few weeks now. You could use a day off."

She looked up, eyes bright with hope. "Are you really sure? I mean, I don't want to slight anyone, or leave you alone, or –"

He waved her off. "I'll be fine. And anyone who asks about you will be told that you've been given an important task by the Inquisition. They don't have to know that by Inquisition I mean me, and by important task I mean having a little fun."

She threw her hands around his shoulders and hugged him. "You have no idea how thankful I am."

"I have an idea," he said, chuckling. "Oh, and I know I don't even have to ask, but drag the kid with you, even if he's reluctant. He's starting to brood, and the last thing we need is someone like him brooding. That's how we get bad poetry."

The day of the festival, Sinead woke early, her excitement having kept her sleep light. She quickly dressed in her usual Skyhold dress – long red tunic, gold sash, gold trousers and red slippers – and braided her hair in a crown, setting it with her hairpins. Mathilde arrived with breakfast as she wiggled the second pin into place.

"Oh, my lady, I thought your green dress would be more suitable for a day like today," Mathilde said with slight disapproval.

"Mathilde, you know I am grateful for everything you've done for me, but today is my day off and I feel the need to look like  _me_." Sinead smiled and stole an apple from the breakfast tray. "Do you also have a day off today?"

"After my morning tasks are complete, yes." Mathilde wiggled Sinead's hairpins, testing their hold. They were stuck fast, and Mathilde sniffed with appreciation at Sinead's work. "And now I am free. Have a good day my lady." She curtsied with a smile and left.

Sinead quickly finished her breakfast and knocked on the adjoining door to Varric and Cole's room.

"Are you decent?" she called.

Varric opened the door and ushered her in. He was in a silver coat with trim so ostentatious that he nearly gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the window. As always, his tunic was cut low. Cole was propped up on the bed's backboard, in a green doublet and very dark green trousers. He had on yet another jaunty hat, this one the same green as his trousers.

"Now I know why Mathilde wanted me in the green dress," she muttered with a grin at Cole. "Are you sure you're fine with attending balls all day alone?"

"Don't worry about me," Varric said, checking his cuffs in the mirror. "This should be a very lucrative day. I've got my eye on a few lordlings with too much gold and not enough skill in cards or business. You two go and have fun. Get into some trouble even. Wait." He looked up from his sleeves. "Between the two of you, 'getting into trouble' probably means you'll come back with a herd of kittens. No bringing strays home. That goes double for you, kid!"

Cole jumped down from the bed. "Stray kittens?"

"Stray  _anything_."

Sinead giggled. "Goodbye, Varric. Don't grift the lords too badly. It's a festival day for them, too."

He winked at her as she pulled Cole from the room.

The streets were already starting to fill, the crowd walking toward the central squares of the city. Sinead wove quickly through the people, unconcerned about Cole's ability to follow her – he was a shadow, ever attached to her movement. Finally they entered the main square, where people massed around booths that lined the edges of the square and the streets for each connecting square. Music was everywhere, each square with its own troubadours. Jugglers, mimes and acrobats were ringed by people as they performed, each act completed with whistles and cheers of delight.

At first, Sinead stared at the revelry with joy, never having seen such a large group of people buying and selling and eating and enjoying entertainment. But something sparked in the back of her mind, some memory of another crowd from long ago that bumped and surged in a scared, hopeless mass, and the cheers turned to cries of anger and frustration and fear and desperation.

The panic hit her like a shock of cold water, stealing her breath. She trembled, lightheaded, unable to move as her breathing became shallow.

A hand encircled her wrist, warm and gentle. Cole smoothly led her to the relative seclusion of a lover's alcove, past a couple clandestinely sharing a kiss, and sat her down on a bench. She put her head between her knees and took deep breath after deep breath until the waves of panic gradually lessoned and ceased, leaving her shaky and tired.

She lifted her head. "I'm sorry," she croaked.

"Why?" Cole sat beside her, still holding her wrist, calmly watching her.

"For being bloody embarrassing," she said, dabbing her wet temples with a sleeve.

"You aren't embarrassing. You're Sinead."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes. And I mean what I say."

She gave him a look and bumped him with her shoulder. "Shall we try again?"

"Okay." He moved his hand into hers. "Remember – you're not  _there_ , you're  _here_."

"Right."

They left the alcove hand in hand and re-entered the crowd. The panic immediately threatened to return, but Cole squeezed her hand and she took a few deep gulps of breath and walked on. As they walked, the crowd slowly returned to its unthreatening cheerful first impression, the smells of roasted meat and nuts, the bright colors of the booths and the joyful music bringing her back to the present.

Panic conquered, she pulled Cole along from booth to booth, admiring the fine jewelry and weaponry and silks and goods. She stopped at a booth selling intricately carved hair combs, admiring the skill that went into the work. She bought one that was small, but thick and sturdy and had a motif of runic symbols that the seller claimed meant strength – a gift she hoped Dagna would appreciate, given how often she complained of her hair refusing to stay in place during a long day at the forge.

They wandered the festival, stopping to watch a set of jugglers. Sinead cheered and clapped as they tossed fifteen balls back and forth, and then added apples, cabbages, and figs in the mix, keeping everything in the air as if by magic, but  _not_  by magic, which was astounding.

"Their father would be proud of them," Cole said matter of factly. "They always had trouble with the cabbages when he was alive."

They tossed coins at the jugglers' basket, one for each ball, fruit and vegetable.

Near midday Sinead's belly began to rumble, and she wove her way to the food booths, Cole close on her heels. The smells were intoxicating – pies, every type of meat on sticks, fruit and vegetables that had been roasted, or candied, or fried, also on sticks.

"Food on sticks is the best way to eat food," she said, buying a pheasant and onion kebab and a candied apple. "You can walk and talk and when you're finished there's nothing to clean." She held up the kebab to Cole. "Try a little?"

Cole stared at the kebab with distaste. "A quick burst of fear, a flash of bright pain, a memory of chicks long grown, and then nothing."

"Ah, not the meat then," she said, her appetite lessoned a little by the pheasant's last thoughts. Nontheless, she took a bite, the savory meal filling her empty stomach. "But try the apple, please? When I was a little girl, it was what I looked forward to at every fair – beautiful green apples shining with sugar."

Cole shook his head. "I still don't eat."

"You don't  _have_  to eat. That's quite a bit different from  _never_  eating. There are many things we don't have to do but still do because it's pleasurable, and that's okay. Pleasure is necessary sometimes, and taste can be very pleasurable."

"But I already know taste. I've seen the memories of taste."

"Memories are never the same as being in the moment." She waggled the apple in front of his nose. "I promise, you won't regret it."

He held her hand to steady the apple, hesitant. Her brows lifted as he took a bite. He held the apple piece in his mouth, the look on his face that of revelation. Slowly he chewed and swallowed, staring at her with wide eyes.

"Sharp sweetness and soft flesh followed by crisp, cool wetness.  _This_  is taste?"

"This is one taste. One flavor," she said, giddy. "Flavors upon flavors within one flavor. What do you think?"

"I…don't know. It's." He was swaying on his feet. He stumbled back, and Sinead dropped her apple as she moved to catch him, letting him lean on her shoulder. "To eat is to taste is to hunger and crave and want. It's so  _real_."

"Et voila, someone is enjoying himself today!" a man crowed, slapping Cole on the back as he passed, throwing the two of them off balance. "Steady on, boy!"

"This is what being drunk is like?"

"Absolutely not. He's an idiot. And I'm a fool." She helped him to a bench. "I practically forced it on you. You won't regret it, oh, you stupid cow. I didn't mean to distress you."

"You aren't a fool, you're trying to help me know." He took off his hat and shook his head to clear it. "And it isn't distressing. It's…hard to explain. Like thinking that a circle is the only way to be, then seeing a sphere, then  _being_  a sphere. It's hard to stop thinking circle without feeling dizzy." He gave her a small smile. "Thank you. But I will not try to taste again until I feel more sphere. Also, the boy behind you is trying to pick your pouch."

She jerked her head around. A ragged boy of about eight stood behind her, frozen, hand raised, eyes wide with shock. The way he was positioned, there was no way Cole could have seen him. The boy unfroze and tried to jump away, but Cole quickly reached around her and snatched his arm, pulling him to the bench.

"Let go you demon man," the boy shouted, wiggling and kicking at Cole. Cole was unmoved, holding the boy firm. People in the crowd glanced their way, but continued walking.

"He's hungry," Cole said, examining the boy with his cool, assessing gaze. "His uncle doesn't feed him unless he brings in enough coin. He used to beg, and now he steals. What coin he does bring in the uncle drinks away. He'd run, but he has a young sister that the uncle threatens to throw out of the house if he doesn't stay."

The boy stopped struggling and gaped at Cole. "How'd you know all that," he whispered.

"I saw it in your head."

The boy's eyes doubled in size. " _Are_  you a demon man?"

"Not anymore."

The boy was suitably impressed with this answer.

"Oh, dear." Sinead kneeled down and looked the boy over. "We can't just let him go. He'll go back into the crowd and end up back with his uncle. Or he'll get caught."

"I won't," the boy said stoutly. "I'm very good."

"Cole's not the only one capable of catching small-handed thieves, mind reading or no," she said sternly. She sighed. "I suppose we can bring him to the hotel. Varric would know what to do with him."

Cole shook his head. "Varric said no strays. And he meant it."

"Well I'm certainly not calling the guards or turning him into the Chantry," she said, crossing her arms. "The former will treat him no better than a cut-throat, and the latter is already overwhelmed by war orphans. What do you propose?"

Cole thought for a moment, still examining the boy. "Will you work, if the boss is good and the food is plenty and your sister is safe?" he asked finally. "I think you will, but say it out loud so that I know it's real."

"I-I will," the boy stammered, bemused, looking from Sinead to Cole. From the look on his face, this was the last reaction he expected from someone who caught his hand in their purse.

Cole nodded and stood, leading the boy by the arm. Sinead followed them, out of the festival grounds, away from the main squares, and eventually away from the main boulevards. They entered a part of the city she had never seen, one where the craftsmen worked their wares before selling them to the merchants – wood workers, smithies, arcanists, tailors, weavers, goldsmiths, coopers and so on. He stopped in front of a narrow shop door and knocked.

A small woman opened the door, looked at each of them, and smiled brightly. "You here for a deal on pots? Most of our best were bought up for the festival, but we have some fine products for a merchant looking for a good bargain."

"I don't need pots." Cole pushed the boy towards the woman. "He needs an apprenticeship. Your husband needs an apprentice." He pointed at Sinead. "She has money to pay for his place."

The woman looked surprised. "How did you know we were in need of a helping hand? My husband has not yet posted notice of a position."

"He saw it  _in your mind_ ," the boy said with awe.

The woman laughed with delight. "What a fine  _petit garçon"_  she said, clapping her hands. "Come in, come in." She bustled them all inside an airy shop where copper and steel pots hung from the wall and the ceiling. "Un moment, let me fetch my husband." She passed through a door into a back room that Sinead took to be the workshop given the tinny sound of hammer against metal.

"She didn't believe me." The boy gave Cole an exasperated look.

"People don't like to believe what they don't think is possible," Cole said with a shrug.

"Then will you read her mind again? Maybe say something about  _her_  sister," the boy said excitedly.

"I can't. She doesn't have a sister."

Just then a burly man slammed through the workshop door. He looked at the boy and grunted, then took him by the wrists and studied his hands. The boy was completely quelled by the man's size and allowed his fingers to be wiggled one by one and his arms to be squeezed. The woman padded through the door and looked over her husband's shoulder.

The man gave a satisfied snort. "You willing to work hard, lad? Wake up early, bed down late? Be polite to my wife? Run errands, get your hands dirty, and your arms sore? And you won't run away when the job gets tough?"

"Y-yes sir. I mean, no sir. I mean –"

The man snorted again and slapped the boy's shoulder. He stood and crossed his arms, sizing up Sinead and Cole.

"I'll take on your boy, but I'll need his premium up front. I've lost business with the war, and I'm still setting things right." He held out a hand. "One Hundred and fifty gold."

Sinead blanched.

"That's everything I have," she hissed at Cole.

"I know," he whispered back. "He was the only one on the street you could pay."

"Oh, dear. I hope Varric doesn't mind if I ask him for a loan."

She untied her pouch, looked inside, and then handed the man the whole thing. The man nodded and went back to the workroom.

"Now,  _ma petit_ , let me show you to your quarters," the wife said.

"I have to say goodbye first," Cole said, pulling the boy aside. He whispered something in the boy's ear. The boy nodded, then took the woman's hand.

They left the shop, Sinead feeling light on her feet, her heart full.

"What did you say to him?"

"I told him to wait until tomorrow night to fetch his sister, and to show her to the woman first. She will be reminded of her own daughter. She'll make the man take in the girl." He pulled his hat over his eyes. "I don't know if I helped. The potter will be hard. He will sometimes hit the boy when he makes mistakes. He thinks it's necessary – hurt with hands so that the boy does no damage to himself with the tools. The boy will be fed for a long time, his sister will be too, but he will still hurt. He may still run away or go back to stealing."

Sinead returned to earth.

"There are many people who hit their children without beating them," she said tentatively. "There are people who are hard in the mind but soft in the heart. And there are paths you can't control. At this moment you have done what you can for this boy and the person he loves the most in his life. Be happy."

"How?" He gave her a pained, lost look. "Before, it was enough to help any who needed it, then go on and help another, or help that person again, and each time I was happy. But now I think, I helped them this time, but what about next time? And after that? And that? Will they never be free from needing help? And I think, there are so many, always someone who needs help, too many who will never have it. How can I be happy?"

"Well, you think of the good – or perhaps you don't think of - oh, Andraste's knickers, I don't know." She kicked at a pebble in the road. "Saying be happy is too simple, but I don't have an answer for this one. All you can do is help when you can, and let yourself be happy. How to do that is another matter altogether, and if you find out you'd best tell me."

"I won't," Cole said sadly. "Because I think there is no answer."

It was the helplessness in his voice that hurt her the most. She recognized that tone, that knowledge of the Void that was her constant enemy. To think that someone with such an infinite well of empathy would falter after standing on its precipice and realizing that he was but a speck of light in the darkness upset her.

She could not leave him on that ledge, thinking himself alone and adrift. Her thoughts were swift, flying through her mind in a whirl, one word their focus: closure. She took Cole's arm and turned down a street.

"Come on," she said, not thinking very hard about druffaloes.

"Where are we going?" He was suspicious. "You're not thinking of druffalos and I was sad. We aren't going  _dancing_  are we?"

She was so surprised at his guess that she laughed hard as she walked. "Why do you think that?"

"Because you want to cheer me up when I'm sad, and I like dancing. But dancing in front of other people would be…bad. Please don't let it be dancing."

"It's not dancing," she said carefully, turning onto a wide boulevard, once more in the wealthy district of town but far from the festival. "And I'm afraid it won't be very cheerful."

The White Spire came into view, and they climbed the wide stares to the entrance.

"It's locked," she said, waving a hand in front of it to remove the magical wards. "Can you do the rest?"

Cole gave her a curious look, but she kept the druffaloes at the forefront of her mind, nickering and flicking their tales and telling no secrets. He took his lock pick tools from his pouch and quickly made short work of the lock.

As they entered the Spire, Cole said, "Is it a book then? Some sad story to show me an answer?"

She said nothing, passing the grand staircase to the library and walking on down a hallway to a small set of stairs that led to the lower levels of the Spire. At once, it clicked for Cole.

"No," he said firmly, stopping in front of the doorway. "I'm not going down there."

"Very well." Sinead began the descent.

Cole grabbed her arm. "It's dangerous below," he said, agitated. "Everything sings down there, and it feels  _wrong_. And I'm not even in armor."

"I'm not going to the bottom of the Pit, just to the dungeons." Her voice was resolute. "I want to see the place where you became who you are. And I'm not exactly helpless if I run into anything nasty."

She shook him off and flicked her wrist. A small, yellow ball of fire appeared over her shoulder. Then she continued down the stairs. She did not look back, but she heard him pacing above. She was already at the second flight when he finally caught her up. He was sullen as they circled downward, hunching his shoulders more and more as the inky blackness of the stairway blotted out all light but that of her floating lantern. Finally he stopped in front of an arched, stone doorway.

"This is it," he muttered.

Cool air that smelled of old rot and mold brushed around them as they crossed the threshold, their footsteps echoing across empty space. A glowstone hung above an old table from a chain that disappeared into the dark. Sinead turned her hand, and it flickered to life, along with every glow stone along the wall. Sinead gasped. They were in a small alcove, a guardpost. Beyond was a circular cellblock with a railed ledge of a walkway. She approached the walkway and looked down – there were dozens of levels that stretched downward, each with twenty-odd cells.

"They kept the mages they found here," she said, her anger flaring. "Even the young apprentices?"

"Yes." He was hunched, his face pale and dappled with moisture. "I  _hate_  this place." Pure loathing was in his voice, an emotion she had never heard from him before. It sounded like he was both going to be sick and willing the place to burn down with his mind.

"I don't blame you," she replied with disgust. The cells did not put her in the mood to help him hold back. "Show me."

He was still for a moment, but finally he walked on, each step heavy and slow. They descended six levels before he stopped in front of a cell. His eyes were dull.

"I don't want to go in."

"I do." She tried the door, but it was locked. Her anger piqued, she threw a burst of power and flame at the door. It cracked in two then burned, making a hole big enough for her to squeeze through. Once inside she turned around. The cell was small, six feet by five, with a cot bolted to the wall. She sat on the cot and looked through the door. Cole was sitting on the ground, arms curled around his knees.

She set her jaw. "Tell me."

His words came slow. Methodical. As if reciting an old epic poem, an event that did not happen to him.

"It was helping that mattered. Others, they wanted to do more, become more, align to big things – love, justice, peace, hope, faith. But I didn't want to be big, I just wanted to help. I could hear the pain through the veil, some places better than others. They were easy to find – people hurting, people needing care. I could whisper in a dream to soothe someone with a small secret, or nudge a man to help a hungry beggar, or tell a traveler where they lost their trail. I never stayed in one place, because the helpless weren't in one place – they were everywhere. I was happy."

"And then, I came here." He was rocking back and forth. "This place was so full of pain, the mages pushing against unseen cell walls, the Templars pulling against unseen chains. It confused me. And when I tried to help, they pushed me away. I didn't know why. Now I know that they…they thought I was a demon, pushing on their minds. But I didn't know. And I kept trying, telling them of other ways, whispering to dreamers. I knew if they just listened…and then I felt his pain." He stopped rocking and touched the damaged door. "Cole."

"His pain must have been awful," she said with a low voice.

"Like knives, nails, knotting his stomach. His mouth dry, cracking, crying in silence. And no guard would hear me. They would not  _hear me_." He hit the door with a fist. "I could not help. So I crossed over and did the only thing I could do. I held his hand and watched him die." He stood and kicked the door, cracking it on its hinges. "He is gone and forgotten," he shouted, kicking the door again and again as he spoke. "Long lost, left alone to lie in his own filth and die. And he is not the only one, not only in these cells, this city, this century, this existence, so many stepped on and shoved aside and down and deep and the world holds no memory of them and so will forget again."

Alarmed, Sinead quickly stood and touched the door, freezing it through. With a last kick, it shattered, and she hid her eyes as ice shards scattered across the cell. Cole's breath was ragged, and he stood stunned by the damage to the door. He walked into the cell, boots crunching over ice, and placed his hand on the far wall. She placed a hand on his shoulder tentatively, and stayed silent, unsure of what to say.

"I became him to remember him," he said sadly. "But when I'm gone, he will be forgotten again. And someday another will be in this cell, hungry and alone, and no one will come."

Deep within, anger rolled over her. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before – years of pent up rage at the worst that people were capable of made her flush. She thought of Templars burning, but this time she did not think of the lives lost – she thought of the lives saved, the terrified children that the Templars would have cut down had she done nothing. She thought of hands on her body against her will, and taking one of those hands from its owner forever. She thought of a knife held at her throat and a threat of death for the trinkets in her pack, that threat cut short by an arrow.

She thought of a starving child, and the spirit who left his home forever, wanting nothing more than to help.

"I'll burn this place to the ground before I let anyone forget another damned person in this Maker forsaken hole," she snarled. "Show me the Templar quarters."

Cole looked at her, surprised. Without giving him a chance to reply, she stormed out of the cell, quickly ascending through the dungeon levels. He followed after her, calling her name as she left the guard room for the stairs, waving her hand and plunging the dungeon into darkness. As she reached the first floor, he finally took her hand and turned her around.

"Your thoughts are jumbled, jarring, beset by visions of vengeance." The flickering lantern threw shadows over his eyes, concern edged his words.

"Not vengeance. Justice. Remembrance." She prodded his chest with each word. "Where did they sleep?"

He hesitated a moment, his worry growing. "Near the top floor," he said finally.

She let out a hollow laugh and continued up the stairs, scaling them at a run. "Of course they are. The Templars need the very best quarters, don't they? Goodness knows a top tier room would only spoil the mages." She spoke at the top of her lungs, letting her voice reverberate around the abandoned Spire. "Why treat mages like people? Their power is dangerous, terrible, possibly evil. It's easier to lock them away, tell them they're monsters, have them fear the very place that gives them their power, treat them like chattel, take their minds if they don't comply, let them die in darkness." The lantern at her shoulder burned bright blue as her anger grew.

"They aren't all like that," Cole said quietly.

"No, they aren't. But that's what they're told to be. People don't come to the Templars to kill children." She clenched her teeth. "They learn to kill the innocents by being told that they're demons."

Cole stopped her. "Here. This floor."

The afternoon sun lit the darkened hallways. Old wooden bunks could be seen through open doors. She nodded and took Cole's hand, flipping it palm up. Then she grabbed one of his daggers, unsheathing it and laying the blade against his palm. She stared him in the eye.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." He paused. "But you are very angry."

"I am. And I need you to help me help you make it right."

He hesitated for a long moment. "Okay," he said finally. "If you don't hurt yourself."

"I won't."

She cut into his hand, a deep gash that made him gasp. Blood welled up, fast and thick.

"Dagna discovered something interesting about lyrium. You can use it to store memories."

Using the flat of the blade she spread it until it covered his palm, then she pulled him down with her to kneeling and pressed his palm against the floor.

"If lyrium can do it, blood can surely do it, too."

She picked up his hand by the wrist, leaving a clear handprint behind. She then flipped his hand palm up again and coated the blade in his blood, wiping it through the pooling wound.

"Hold it above your head for a minute to slow the bleeding," she ordered, and as he complied she cut her own hand. Then she wrapped his injured hand around the shaft of the blade and covered that hand in her own, cringing as her cut stung from the movement. She gave him a look. "Think of everything you remember about the apostate Cole. His hunger, his pain, his memories, his fear, even his smell. I'll make sure no one who uses this building can forget him."

Cole slowly nodded, not looking away from her gaze. Sinead took a deep breath and pulled at her blood. Immediately the power wrapped around her mana like thick armor. The voices came soon after, the veil like a gossamer curtain between her and the demons who taunted her, goading her to pull from Cole's blood as well. The temptation was strong, like hunger after a long day, but she sneered at it and pushed it away.

 _You'll get nothing from me today_.

She brought the dagger down, stabbing through the center of Cole's handprint. It slid into the floor like a knife through lard.

As the shaft hit the stone, her head was awash with sensory memories that were not hers. The pain of a tight, empty stomach hit her like a punch, and the fear and sadness and anger and despair was so intense that she began to cry, tears streaming down her cheeks. Cole nearly let go of the dagger in surprise, but she held his hand firm. He looked at her, almost fearful.

"Your eyes are bright red," he said, worried.

"And yours are bright green," she said through trembling lips. They shone with their own light, the green of the Fade, and his old aura outlined his silhouette. She smiled shakily. "It's always with you, even if it's hidden."

" Of course. Are you safe, Sinead?"

" Yes. I just need to set the spell. Something that will get into the mind at night. Something that-"

She had it. She took a breath, and began to sing.

 _"_ _Sleep my love, lay down my love_

_And rest your weary head._

_The day was long but it has gone_

_And now it's time to bed._

_Golden tales await for you_

_To visit in the Fade._

_Close your heavy eyes my dear_

_And go where dreams are made."_

As she sang, she pushed Cole's memories from her mind, through the blood on the blade and into the blood of the handprint. Each word of the song was permeated with the apostate's emotions. The handprint glowed, deep red fringed in soft green.

 _"_ _Soft my heart, be still my dear_

_Think not of somber things_

_Calm your mind and be soothed by_

_The peace that slumber brings_

_I will hold your hand my love_

_As your breathing slows_

_So journey on and safe you'll be_

_Wherever you may go."_

With the last line of the song, she let go of the memories. She pulled the blade from the stone and took it from Cole's hand, then healed his wound.

"I have to use the handprint," she muttered. "I don't want to pull from you by accident."

She rubbed her cut to get the blood running again and pressed her hand against the handprint. She gathered up the power within her, her mana, her blood, the blood from the print. Then she  _pushed_ _._

She could feel every stone in the Spire, every crack in the mortar, every worn stair. She felt she was a part of the Spire, strong and old, steady and solid. Memories whispered through the stone, not just the ones she had forced upon the grand estate, centuries' worth of hopes and dreams and fears and joys and bitterness. How were these small memories of one lost child different?

 _They forget_ _,_ she said to the Spire.  _They must never forget again._

The Spire did not disagree. It absorbed Cole's memories, mixed up in her mother's lullaby, set them in the stone, promised to sing to any who dared forget their humanity.

She smiled.  _Thank you_ _._

There was a crack of power, the smell of burnt ozone. She released the spell.

She slumped forward, muzzily aware of a bright red, now dimming glow. She felt peaceful, her mana still nearly full, the blood power spent but not to the point of exhaustion. She calmly healed her cut and looked at Cole.

He was weeping breathy sobs, face contorted, wiping his eyes with his sleeves. Alarmed, Sinead took his hand in hers, pressed her other hand against his cheek.

"Maker, did I do wrong?" she said, studying his reddened eyes, anxious. "I'm so sorry. I-"

"No," he choked out. "No. I-I heard, I-"

He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close, burying his nose in her hair.

"Thank you. Thank you."


	22. A Small Revelation

The revelation did not come to her that moment, though the epiphany teetered on the edge of her mind.

She returned Cole's hug, stunned at his blatant show of affection, pressing her hands into his back and placing her cheek against his chest as he cried into her hair. She had never been so close to him before, close enough to take in his scent – a heady mixture of soap, sweat, male, and something vaguely metallic. Her chest ached and her breath caught in her throat.

"Let's get out of here," she said, pulling away and standing. "We still haven't seen the whole of the festival."

Cole smiled his small smile, wiping his face and picking up his bloodied dagger as he stood. She cringed at the state of the blade and handed him a handkerchief from her sleeve.

"Sorry about that. It looks like you've been through a slaughter."

"Oh, my knives never get this dirty, even with a lot of kills," he said cheerfully as they descended the stairs. He scrubbed at the drying blood, scattering dark red flakes in their wake. "My hands move too fast for the blood to stay put."

"Well that's…good. I think."

He kept the good cheer as they walked, chattering about whatever came to mind. He pointed at a flock of birds passing overhead, describing their vision of the city – white, cold, square, hungry. He called out to a cat in an alley, telling it to go two streets down if it wanted a friendly old woman's cream. The cat made no sign of having understood, but it flicked its tail and padded off in the direction Cole pointed.

And when they reached the festival, there were many little things that he did, almost without a thought. A young couple passed them, the boy nervously lifting and dropping his hand, the girl talking with a light blush on her cheeks, and Cole knocked the boy's arm just so, so that it landed on the girl's shoulders. The girl's blush deepened and she snuggled up to the boy, who appeared to be both stunned and pleased by this serendipitous bump from the crowd. Later Cole stole a bag of candied fruits from a busy and prosperous stall, palming it as they went by, and dropped the bag in the lap of a child sitting on the edge of a fountain and sniffling at her torn bag and the fruits it once held scattered and stomped into the cobblestones. To an older woman hemming and hawing over a bolt of cloth, he said, "he's says it's Rivaini, but it's actually from Starkhaven." The woman frowned at the merchant and refused to pay more than a silver for cheap Free Marches product.

They stayed long after the sun set and the lanterns flickered to life, watching firedancers and acrobats and dancers. Cole stole a candied apple for her, "because you lost the last one, and he's sold many this evening," and through mouthfuls she joined in a call and response song a wickedly witty troubadour sang in the center of one square.

There was dancing in another square, old folk dances with simple spins and circle chains. Sinead pulled Cole in – "It isn't a waltz," she yelled over the music, "All you have to do is not fall!" – and they circled and clapped as the violins squealed and the drums banged out a never-ending beat.

Finally, when the moons were high, Sinead began to droop. The festival showed no sign of slowing, but her body had given up for the night.

"You can stay if you wish, but I have to go back," she said, stifling a yawn. "I'll drop any moment."

Cole refused to leave her side, escorting her back to the hotel. She stumbled into her room, barely having time to kick off her slippers before sinking into bed.

"It's the magic," she slurred, eyes heavy. "I forgot how much big magic takes out of me."

Cole kneeled next to the bed and carefully pulled her hairpins loose, setting them on the side table.

"Thank you," she murmured, closing her eyes. "Goodnight Cole."

"Goodnight." As her thoughts scattered into dreams, she thought she heard him whisper, "Journey on and safe you'll be wherever you may go." But the words were lost in the fog of sleep that blanketed her.

* * *

The next day she was awakened by a sharp rap on her door. She snorfled, lifting to sitting and combing her fingers through her tangled hair. The sun was high, and a small tray of fruit, bread, cheese and small ale was set on her side table.

The knock came again, from the adjoining door. She slipped from the bed and opened the door.

"Good morning, Varric," she muttered, blinking. "What time is it?"

He grinned. "Good afternoon to you." He was sharply dressed and showed no signs of having been out all night.

"Afternoon? Oh, Maker, I'm late." She leaped to her wardrobe and started pulling out clothes.

"Relax, I already sent word that you wouldn't be at the Spire today and got a similar reply in return. Apparently the day after a festival is a day of rest for Val Royeaux." Varric closed the door behind him. He leaned against the edge of her bed and crossed his arms. "And now you're gonna spill. What happened yesterday?"

"What do you mean? Cole and I went to the festival, a good time was had by all." She held up two tunics. "Green or blue?"

"Blue. And bullshit. He's been running around all day doing his little odd jobs and making mysterious but eerily on the nose observations. I haven't seen the kid this happy since before his little rendezvous with the Templar. Spit it out, Dusty."

"Please don't get upset." She hid behind her dressing screen and pulled off her tunic. "I might have maybe possibly brought Cole to the White Spire dungeons."

"Are you kidding me? You did that  _alone_? We had a plan!"

"It was spur of the moment," she said, pulling her clean tunic over her head and popping back out into the room. She gave him a pleading look. "He was so very sad, and even the festival was doing nothing to help him. Andraste's thumbs, he was having doubts over helping a child find a good home! I had to do something, and clearly it turned out all right."

"And what if it hadn't?" Varric shook his head. "Shit, he could have had a meltdown. You didn't have to go into that situation without someone else there for support."

"I know. And he almost did have a meltdown, but I –" She quickly tied off her sash. "Well, I sort of had my own and snapped him out of it."

"This is rich. And what did  _your_  meltdown result in?"

She gave him a sheepish look, twisting her hand around her thumb. "Maybe a little bit of blood magic." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Not bad blood magic! Well, not exactly good either, though I don't really know the moral coloring of giving a building a bunch of memories to use to emotionally manipulate future angry assholes."

Varric cocked his head. "… _What_? Wait." He held up a hand. "Don't explain. I don't want to know."

"That doesn't really matter anyway," she said, waving her hands and turning to the mirror. Her fingers made quick work of her tangles, and she wove her locks together in a braid. "I mean, it matters, but what  _really_  matters is how he reacted. He…" She paused her braiding and smiled at the memory of his arms around her, his squeezing hug, his tears, his cheerful demeanor the rest of the day. "It seemed that something shifted. Inside, I mean. I'm sure it still pains him, what the mage Cole went through, but I think…I think he can let happiness in again, too. I hope he can."

She glanced at Varric in the mirror. He was smirking, a knowing and amused gleam in his eyes. She frowned and turned.

"What?"

"Nothing." He shrugged. "I'm just glad the kid's okay."

"Liar." She picked up her hairpins and shoved them through the braid. "What were you thinking?"

"Fine, I'm thinking that it's good the kid made such a great  _friend_. And vice versa for you."

"What do you mean by tha-"

Just then Cole swept through the door. "Everything is closed which means everyone is open," he said, jumping atop the bed and leaning over Varric. "People picnic in the park with wicker baskets baring bread and fruit and wine. Can we go too, Varric?"

"Sure, why not. I haven't had a picnic…ever, actually, now that I think about it. And I don't count eating old biscuits in camp as a 'picnic'."

Cole beamed. "I'll go to the kitchens." He jumped off the bed and took off through the door.

"Wait, let me help," Sinead called, running after him. "You can't always steal everything, you know!"

* * *

It was late that night before the meaning of Varric's words finally hit her.

Her sleep was fitful, filled with visions of bound and angry demons. She surfaced from her dreams, not in a panic but in a state of irritation. She fluffed her pillow, changed positions, curled and uncurled, but sleep eluded her. She spread her arms and legs and sighed.

 _I suppose I could try to find Cole_ , she thought.  _He'll be up and about, and we haven't finished The Mysterious Lives of Madame Orene_.

A smile spread on her lips as she thought of Cole's reaction to the book. "The title says she's lived multiple lives, but it's just the one life with different masks. And it's not really a mystery how she gets the masks, she just keeps marrying richer and richer men and then killing them."

It was so like him to be disgruntled by a metaphoric title. She loved his little frown of annoyed confusion. The distant look in his eyes when he was imagining the scenes. The way his hands moved as he spoke, nimble, callused fingers seeming to grasp at concepts he couldn't quite understand before they slipped from him. It was strange that such gentle hands also felt so strong and sure when they took hers – but he was always a person of dualities, the blade and the open hand, the soft hat and the solid helm, the human and the spirit. Maker, it was even in his scent – the copper taste of magic mixed with sweat. She could not help to wish she could smell it again, another time in his arms, perhaps –

And then came the epiphany. She sat up in bed, her body covered in goose flesh.

 _Oh, Maker's fucking lover. I'm in love_. She covered her eyes.  _No, that's stupid. A crush. I have a small crush on a very good friend. Good_  friend _! Shit of Andraste, Varric knows. How did I not know but he did? How long have I thought this way and not admitted it myself? Good knight, was Solas right about me?_  Then the very worst thought entered her mind. _Void take me. Cole knows. He_ knows _! How could he not? My head is a polished Chantry window to him._   _Thank the Maker he hasn't said anything to me or I would have died on the spot_. She groaned in agony.  _For the love of Andraste's flaming lingerie, told him I think he looks_  nice.

She covered her head with her blanket and closed her eyes, trying very hard to not think of druffalo


	23. The Pit

t had been ten days since they arrived in Val Royeaux. The White Spire library was thoroughly picked through, books haggled over and crated for delivery to the University of Orlais or Skyhold. The time had come for the archivists to venture into the Pit.

Mathilde acquiesced to Sinead's request for simple clothing – short tunic, trousers and boots – but insisted on braiding her hair tight and close to the head. Still, Sinead was finished preparing long before Cole. She waited for him in he and Varric's room, watching him wrap his hands in linen, buckle on padding, don a thick leather coat, carefully tie on bracers and belt, strap his scabbards to his back, and methodically check and recheck his equipment.

It gave her a little thrill to watch him – there was something in the way he moved as he suited up, a fluid and continuous grace from one task to the next that made her breath catch in her throat. A book she brought to pass the time as Cole readied himself now served as a useful shield to hide her blush.

Her revelation from the night before was still at the forefront of her mind, and she considered not thinking of druffaloes. However, there was no doubt that her secret was out to Cole, and druffaloes would simply call attention to her attraction. And if Cole noticed her admiration, he thankfully did not mention it.

 _Perhaps he's been ignoring it all this time, hoping it will go away_ , she thought.  _A practical solution_. She was pleased by this idea, though frustratingly, a part of her was also saddened.  _Stop being stupid, inner me,_ she grumped.  _We are a grown woman, and we don't fall in love with half-man half-spirit innocents we've made as friends. Well, we_ do _, but we certainly don't allow ourselves to get caught up in such stupidity._

Varric was sitting at a small table, taking in coffee and toast. "Are you sure you need your whole kit, kid? This is just a basement, isn't it?"

"It's a coiling, curving convolution of paths and halls, rooms and openings, a muddled maze." Cole sheathed his daggers. "If you get lost in the labyrinth you're likely not to live. The song is loudest there, and the veil thin."

"And that means…"

"Demons.

"Sounds like a happy adventure."

Sinead cleared her throat and closed her book. "Are you sure you don't want to come with us, Master Tethras? We have five mages total including the students, and a knife welder, but a crossbow may come in handy if things are as nasty as Cole claims."

"As enticing as wandering around an old creepy mage tower's basement sounds, I've still got the last of the shipping arrangements to make today," Varric said with a grin. "Gotta make sure I can land a team that will both carry any arcane crap you two dig up and also won't disappear with it. But you two have fun without me. Lots of weird, demon-dodging fun."

* * *

Enchanter Finn nearly hopped down every stair out of excitement.

"Finally we're going to explore the inner depths of the White Spire," he said. "Students, mark this day. When this Circle was active, it was rare for even an Enchanter to have leave to visit the Pit. And there are rumors that the demon that sparked the White Spire Rebellion was originally found in its fetid halls. We're about to see where history was made!"

Sinead glanced at Cole, but he made no sign of having heard Finn. The dozen or so floating lanterns produced by the mages threw shadows across his face. His head was tilted, as if listening to something. Not as if – he was certainly listening to something.

"Is the song getting louder?" she murmured.

"It's all around us." He looked at her, frowning. "It's the sound of something sundered. It vibrates through me. How can you not hear?"

She shook her head. "I'm glad I can't. I feel strange as it is."

They were well past the dungeon guardroom, though she lost count of how many levels they had circled below the Spire. The student mages kept shaking their heads and blinking. One staggered a bit and had to be caught by a friend before he stumbled.

"What is going on?" One of the mages, a young woman, said. "I feel like someone's looking over my shoulder. And the whispers…"

"It's the Fade," Sinead said. She waved her hand slowly through the air. "The veil's like spider silk here. It's practically mesh. Enchanter, have the students not been exposed to areas of thinness before?"

Finn gave her a bemused look. "I thought you were a Circle mage. We don't typically…do things that way."

"I didn't start my training there," she said crossly. "And these kids have been out of a circle for nearly four years now. Maker, a whole rebellion and no one thought that there may be better ways than keeping them ignorant and hoping for the best if they encountered the worst?"

She was going to continue her rant, but she was silenced by stumbling into a suddenly still Cole.

"We're here," he said placidly. The stairs had ended on a narrow stone landing with no visible door.

"This can't be right," Finn muttered, feeling at the wall. "Everything I've heard from former Spire inhabitants make it seem like the Pit was vast."

"Perhaps they walled it off, Enchanter?" one of the nonmage students said.

Sinead brushed a hand over the wall. "He may be right. The brick is newer than the surrounding stonework."

"Blast it! We're so close." Finn hit the wall with a fist.

Sinead looked at him askance. "Enchanter, there are five of mages here. You really think a hastily built brick wall can keep out five of us?" She snapped at the students. "Prepare yourselves. A good, forceful push, right at the wall. On three. One-" She gathered her mana. "Two." She took a breath. "Three!"

The brick wall exploded outward, clattering into a dark, open space. The students gasped at their show of power. Finn gave her a delighted look.

"Forgive me for giving up so easily. I've rarely had the chance to use magic to vandalize property." He waved a hand, and dozens of lanterns appeared in the dark space.

It was a large stone room, its ceiling low. Whatever it had been used for was long forgotten – a thick layer of dust and cobwebs coated every surface. There were remnants of barrels and crates, but even these were old and rotten. Two doorways led to dark halls.

"Is it all like this?" One of the students said, sounding quite put out.

"No." Cole pointed down the right hallway. "There are rooms filled with old furniture and forgotten supplies that way – clothes, linen, mattresses, barrels of salt. It slopes downward into rooms carved from caverns. Some of them are flooded."

"Then that isn't the way we should go, I take it," Finn said cheerfully.

Cole hesitated. "The other hall does lead to old relics – statues, books, amulets, golden trinkets and goblets and armor. But there's something not right that way. It feels…too unreal."

Finn patted Cole on the back. "For someone who isn't a mage, you certainly have interesting instincts. But we'll find nothing of any value if we don't venture forth. Okay, Cole, Lady Archivist, take the lead. Students, we'll take the rear. Anyone without a staff or a knife, keep to the center. Be ready to run if we need to."

"Maker, why did I agree to this internship," one of the nonmagical students muttered.

They walked on down the hallway, passing dark, doorless rooms. Some were filled with debris, others with broken furniture, still others were completely empty but for the dust. The hallway branched, then branched again, Cole choosing a path with a surety of step that no one else in the party shared. He ducked into a room with a doorframe that had sunken some way into the floor, passed through three rooms with varying contents, then stopped inside a long banquet room with one door in the center of each wall. Cabinets lined the room, the wood strangely unsullied by rot. Sinead touched one.

"I think this is ironbark," she said, surprised. "But that's incredible. How did the old mages ever find enough for a whole room of cupboards?"

"Perhaps it was more prolific in the past," Finn said, wiping the dust from another. He tried to open it, but it would not budge. "Odd. I see no lock, and there's no enchantment…"

"Enchanter, I think I found a lever." One of the students brushed a wad of cobwebs from a small ledge built into the stone wall. He reached for the lever, but one of his mage companions slapped his hand away.

"Sorry, but the lever feels weird," she said sheepishly as he rubbed his hand.

"It does feel…different." Sinead frowned and walked over to the ledge, bringing one of the lanterns close to examine the lever. Her eyes widened. "There's a small reservoir here. And I'm fairly sure it's covered in blood stains."

"A mechanism powered by blood?" Finn hurried over. "I've only heard of such devices in Tevinter."

"We shouldn't touch it, should we?" a student said nervously. "If it's blood magic, I mean."

"Obviously not," Finn said, trying to hide his disappointment. "I suppose this room is off limits to us, then. Perhaps this is actually a storage device for some great peril."

"It's not." Cole walked over to the lever, cocking his head. He pressed a small button on the tip of the lever. A small spike appeared in its place. He pricked his thumb on it, letting the reservoir fill with his blood. Then he pulled the lever. The blood disappeared. The room filled with a coppery scent and a grinding clank pounded through the walls. Cole opened one of the cabinets.

"Andraste's flames, it's a book repository," Finn said, awed. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out a tome that Sinead knew must be at least five hundred years old, given its binding type. But it was in magnificent shape – it was worn, but not aged. "If they used blood magic to create something enchanted against time, then I believe we've rediscovered one of the few times such magic is useful, students."

The archivists, professional and student alike, rushed the cabinets, opening them and sorting through titles.

"I've only heard of some of these titles in other books," one of the students said, mystified. "Satina's  _Lights of the Fade_ , Abernaff's  _Cold Magic_ …"

"Andraste's hats, this is a  _Horantintia Grimiore_ ," another student squealed. "There's only three of these in existence!"

Sinead was not listening. She held at a clean, unworn copy of Ovidius's  _Fifteen Dreams of Elvhenan._ _I_ t was in much better shape than the copy that Norwin had given her – the abstract embossed wolf on its cover looked as if it had been pressed mere days before. She did not think – she glanced around to make sure no one was looking, than slipped the book down the front of her tunic.

"Keep everything you find inside the cabinets as you move down," she said, closing the cupboard and opening another. "There is no way we can take any of these today."

"Then what's the point of being here?" a student grumbled.

"The Lady Archivist is right. To take the books from their safe haven would be a travesty. It's enough to know this exists," Finn said, moving further down the hall. "With any luck when this Circle is in use again we can petition for an exchange, a grand reopening of this room. And perhaps a remodel-"

"Wait!" Cole ran over to Finn and blocked his progress. "Don't move any further. Something is very  _wrong_."

Sinead closed the cabinet she was sorting through. "What kind of wrong?"

Cole was staring off through a doorway at the end of the room. She matched his gaze, squinting her eyes. A strange green glimmer flickered in the darkness. Her blood ran cold.

"Everyone close your cabinets," she said calmly. "Back away to the main door. Quietly."

"What's wrong?" one of the students breathed, complying with her order.

"What is that?" Finn narrowed his eyes at the glimmer. "I've not seen that color before – no, I have. It's so familiar, but I can't place it…"

Cole unsheathed his daggers. A low, guttural roar reverberated through the door to their right.

"Maker," a student squeaked, scurrying toward the end of the room.

"Staffs out," Finn said, unleashing his from his back. "Someone lock the damn cabinets. What  _is_  that shining… _thing_?"

"Fade rift." Cole crouched low. "Don't-" Before he could finish, one of the students hurriedly pulled the lever. There was a grinding clank as the cabinet doors locked. Three green glowing circles appeared in the floor. Cole glanced down and then looked up quickly at the students. "Run."

They did not have to be told twice, running for the door as three great, spindly creatures with gaping, toothy mouths burst up from the floor. Sinead gasped, filling herself with mana and surrounding one of the demons in fire. It screamed and jumped toward her, but she dodged out of the way. One of the terrors ran for the students. Cole caught up with it, throwing a dagger into its back, and as it screamed and stumbled, groping for the dagger, he swung around and caught it in the face with his second blade. The thing dissolved, a cloud of black flying through the air as it was sucked back into the rift.

Finn threw lightening at the third demon, making it ricochet from one demon to another. Sinead finished them off, waving her hands together and burning them away. Just as they were dissolving and Finn let out a yelp of triumph, four more green circles lit the floor.

"I think we should join the students!" Finn cried.

The three of them ran for the door, Finn in the lead. Terrors leapt through the floor, screeching and lashing out with long claws. One of them caught its tendrils in Sinead's braid, dragging her back. She cried out in pain, struggling. She grabbed the thing's arm and sent a wave of cold through its limb. Cole flew towards her, swinging at the demon's arm and shattering it, then grasping her hand and pulling her toward the door.

As she ran through the doorway, she felt at her hair, pulling frozen chunks of demon from the braid. Then she realized – one of her mother's pins was missing. She felt around her head, panicked.

"I can't," she cried, skidding her feet against the floor to stop Cole and shaking him off. She took his hand and the dagger with it, dragging the blade roughly over her arm. Blood welled up from the cut. "Make sure the others get upstairs."

He cried out her name as she ran back through the door, but she ignored him, pulling at her blood and sending a wave of power at the terrors. They screeched as they flew back against the cabinets. She lit the room with tiny lanterns until it shined like a ballroom at court and frantically looked around the floor for her hairpin. She spied it propped up against one of the cabinets just as the terrors rallied. She sent out the wave of power again, knocking them back, then ran for her pin, picking it up and tucking it into her tunic where it rattled against the book.

Suddenly, there was pain. Waves of power jolted through her body. She fell against the cabinets, stunned, and flopped to the ground. Through a groggy haze she made out the enormous form of a pride demon, its body craggy and misshapen, horns rising from its triangular head. It laughed and leaned over her.

"Little blood mage. We heard you. And you ignored us." It picked her up and dangled her by her right arm. She cried out as it shook her, dislocating her arm. The terror demons stood back, hissing. "We only wanted to see this world through your beautiful eyes. Why would you deny us? Why do you cause us pain? Don't you think it would only be fair for you to feel the pain you caused us?" It squeezed her arm. There was snap and a high, clear scream and it took a moment for Sinead to realize it was her mouth making the noise. The demon did not stop with her scream. It continued squeezing, moving her arm through its hand and crushing the bones, sometimes shaking her. "Do you feel the pain, little mage? Does it not burn you? Why would you do this to us?"

Cole dropped like a shadow on the demon's back, plunging his daggers deep in its throat, then pushing off it with his feet. The demon roared, dropping Sinead. She hit the ground, mercifully on her left side. She could hear the screeches of the terror demons, hear the scuffle of movement, but the pain was her only focus. It was more than she thought a human body was capable of feeling – like fire and ache and sharp daggers through the skin. She shuddered with the realization that those daggers may be her bones. The room tunneled and the sounds slowed.  _I'm going into shock_ , she thought calmly at the back of her screaming, jumbled mind.

She pulled herself to sitting, numbly watching Cole dodge the electric whip of the pride demon, roll away from a terror's claws and sink his dagger into the chest of another terror. He dropped as it dissolved and ran at another terror, throwing a knife that lodged in its throat. It clattered to the floor as it faded away. He somersaulted toward the knife and reached for it.

"Enough," the pride demon roared. It brought its foot down on Cole's hand before he could jump away. He stabbed his second blade into the creature's leg again and again, but it stood firm. It knocked away Cole's knife and took him by the throat in his massive hands.

"Stupid little Compassion. You never could keep these humans from using you. I liked you better when you were killing them."

Cole clawed at the demon's hands. "I remember you," he gasped. "I remember feeling sorry for you."

The demon chuckled. "Of course. What else can Compassion do but feel sorry?"

"I don't feel sorry anymore," Cole said darkly.

"Is that so? You don't feel corrupted." The demon leaned in, sniffing Cole. Cole kicked out, but the demon was unfazed by the assault. "You aren't possessing someone at all! I thought – this isn't right." The demon growled. "How?  _How_?"

"You're Pride," Cole taunted. "I thought you knew everything."

"Tell me!" The demon roared, squeezing Cole's neck. "Tell me or die, spirit!"

Cole gasped for breath, kicking and pounding on the demon with his fists. His attack grew weaker with every swing of his arm.

Sinead watched this in a fog of pain and shock. Her mana was low, trying to heal her crippled arm. It was difficult to remain conscious, and black rimmed her vision. But when the demon took hold of Cole's neck, the voice at the back of her mind said calmly,  _you have to stop this_. And as the demon squeezed the breath from him, the voice said,  _you still have the blood_.

"Yes," she whispered.

She took hold of the power of her blood. Power poured into her, her blood seeping from the compound fractures up and down her arm. Instantly she felt clearer, the pain pushed back by the power. And she realized in a moment of horror that Cole was in peril.

"Take your hands off him," she snarled, jabbing her left forefinger at the Pride demon.

Instantly it was engulfed in flames. It roared and released Cole. Cole dropped to his hands and knees, coughing and gasping for breath. Sinead turned her hand and the fire burned white hot. As the demon screamed, the terrors rushed her. Without a thought she clenched her fist and they lit up like wicks, burning to black before dissolving away. The pride demon stumbled back, blackened, but still not gone. She pushed, and with one last flare of fire the demon fell into a dark green mass that swept back to the Fade rift.

Her arm fell to her side. She felt odd. She was always exhausted after such a show of power, but this was different. White sparks were floating in front of her line of sight, and her heart fluttered. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes it took a moment for her vision to register.

Cole slid to her side, checking her eyes, pressing his hand against her chest, gingerly plucking at her bloodied and torn right sleeve.

"Nononono, this can't happen," he said, frantic. "This can't happen."

"You're safe." Her words sounded strangely distant and whispery, as if her lungs refused to give her throat enough breath to speak. She lifted her good hand and placed it on his cheek. "That's good. That's very…" she felt too tired to finish.

Cole placed his hand over hers. "You cannot die," he said sternly. "You can _not_  die."

He lifted her, carefully holding her by the waist as he pulled her up with her left arm, then crouched and lifted her on to his back. She closed her eyes and laid her cheek against his shoulder, breathing in his scent.

She was in and out of awareness from that point on. There was a moment on the stairs, him leaning forward so as to not drop her and chanting, "You cannot die. You cannot die."

Then she saw faces around her, worried students, and Finn, who said "Maker's breath, how did this-"

And then a carriage jostling her, and something bumped her arm and she moaned and someone said "she's still with us, we-"

Then she was laying down, she knew not where, and someone was tearing off her damaged sleeve, swearing when they saw the carnage, and someone else had their hand on her chest and said, "her heart is very-"

And then there was darkness.


	24. Aftermath

The running never ended. It was the only truth she knew – there was a time when she dreamed of a life where the running did not exist, some hallucination of reading, standing still, even sleeping. Of friends, of purpose, of being part of something larger. But it was all lies, all something her mind created to distract from the pain and exhaustion of running.

Sometimes she ran through a forest of flames, sometimes through cracked streets surrounded by crumbling buildings, sometimes over mountain trails drenched in blood that speckled her trousers as she splashed through rivulets. Sometimes she was given a child to hold by a faceless, wailing woman, and she would hold that child and run until she could no longer bear the weight and the child would fall screaming from her arms. She tried to stop, to help, but she could not. Her legs ran on, refusing to rest.

Once, long ago, perhaps years or centuries, she made the mistake of looking back, fearfully curious of what she ran from. What could be so terrible that she was incapable of ending her escape? She thought it may be darkspawn, perhaps a Qunari army, or the horrible, twisted Templars of Corypheus. It did not matter what chased her, whatever it was she could surely turn and face it, fight to the death if she needed to, rather than be in endless retreat.

And so she turned her head, slowly for her neck painfully resisted following her direction. And she learned the truth – nothing hunted her. It swallowed everything she passed, fading the land into blackness. Not blackness – black was a color. This was the absence of anything, even of light. Horror filled her, along with the realization that her running was futile – she could not run forever. Nothing would swallow her eventually, and she would be no more.

But as hopeless as her flight was, she could not give up. She ran on, determined to pound her feet to nubs before she surrendered herself to nothing. She would run for eternity if she had to. It must have been eternity. The run was timeless, and that was what eternity consisted of, right? And aside from the doomed children, she was alone - always, endlessly, alone.

Yet in the distance there was a man. And strangely, though she ran fast and the landscape passed by her swiftly, she came no closer to the man. It was he who closed the distance, walking toward her at a slow gait. As he approached, she gasped in recognition – it was Solas, dressed in his travel furs, using his staff as a walking stick. He stopped in front of her, unmoving as she ran on through boggy countryside.

He nodded. "Hello, Lady Archivist. You seem to be traveling at great haste."

"I can't stop," she said. She was calm as she said it – no use being hysterical about the inevitable. "Have to outrun nothing."

"So I see. But have you considered the possibility that if you did stop, nothing may stop pursuing you?"

She shook her head. "That makes no sense. Why else am I running?"

"Perhaps at one time it followed you, but now it has turned its attention elsewhere. I suggest you test this hypothesis and try ending your run." He held out his hand. "I will help you if I'm wrong."

She hesitated a moment – she knew nothing was coming for her, no matter what Solas said. But the elven mage was wise, a trusted friend. And she was so very tired of the chase. She took his hand and slowed her pace to a halt.

Instantly comprehension flooded Sinead. The landscape changed, the fire and blood and bog and ruin rippled away and was replaced by an airy, open suite. The brown stone walls shimmered and a cool, crisp breeze fluttered muslin curtains. Nothing retreated into a distant, unpleasant feeling.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Five days. You were put in stasis, and then refused to wake up. I was summoned to bring you back if I could." Two chairs appeared beneath them, and he sat, motioning to the other chair. "Do you remember what happened?"

Sinead welcomed the chair. She sat, rubbing her grateful feet. "I remember pain. A demon…Cole…"

"You were caught and severely injured by a pride demon. Cole attempted to rescue you, but was overwhelmed. And then you killed every demon in the room with a flick of your wrist." He turned his staff in his hand. "The healers say it's a strange thing, the way your heart nearly gave out. The damage to your arm couldn't have caused your body to fail the way it did – it's as if the very essence of your life had been pulled from you. They think it was the demons, and I thought perhaps it would be best for their deduction to remain uncorrected."

"Ah." Sinead studied her hands. "So now you know."

"I always suspected. It's not hard to detect if you know how - the smell of blood hovers around you. Who else knows?"

"Cole. Master Tethras." She curled her hands into fists. "Everyone else who knows is dead or missing."

"Master Tethras?"

"His best friend is a blood mage. He recognized the scars on my forearm."

"Ah." He frowned deeply. "I understand why you choose to keep your knowledge hidden from others. Southern Thedas has a strange, superstitious hatred for the practice. Given your displays of power and your restraint, I thought you may be more than just a foolish dabbler, and you certainly had no intention of using the power for ill. But if you aren't experienced enough to use blood magic wisely –"

Sinead held up a hand. "I'm no novice Circle apprentice who read up on a few forbidden spells. I know my limits."

"Really? Because the amount of power you used in your condition was suicidal."

"That thing was killing Cole. I had to stop it."

"You could have distracted the demons and allowed Cole to do the rest. To be frank, Cole's an efficient killer. You needn't have risked your life."

"I wasn't thinking of my life, I was thinking…of him." Her voice faltered. "I couldn't let him die for me."

"I see." His stern demeanor softened. He leaned forward. "And now I understand Cole's reaction to your near death."

She sat up straight. "Is something wrong with Cole?"

He did not speak for a moment, giving her a look of concerned pity. "It's an incredible burden you've given yourself by falling in love with one so new to the world, not to mention humanity," he said finally.

"Maker help me, is it so obvious?" She hid her face in her hands. "I'm not – I don't mean to – I know better than to act on my foolish desires. It's just a stupid infatuation. Cole is a dear friend and I – I want nothing else from him."

"I believe you," he said gently, taking her hand in his. "But our desires and our actions influence others, as you are well aware. When you awaken, I want you to consider carefully – has your friendship with Cole become more than what is best for you, or for him? Is it acceptable that you would needlessly risk your life, or he his own, for what you call an infatuation? You understand better than he what's at stake. Now, wake up, Sinead."

* * *

The first thing Sinead was aware of was an earthy, slightly sweet scent – the smell of poppies, which confused her, because the only time she could catch the scent of poppies was when she had one right in front of her nose. She tried to reach up and touch her nose to check for an errant flower, but her hand refused to move.

The second thing she was aware of was a warm weight on her chest, and snuffling breathing. Again she tried to touch the weight, and again her hand refused to move. She tried again with her off hand, her left, and was successful – the weight had long ears, and when she scratched behind them, it snorted and snuggled into her neck.

"Dagger," she whispered. Her voice creaked.

She opened her eyes. The world swam in front of her for a moment as she blinked, then focused. She was in her hotel room, dressed in a sheath with a quilt drawn up to her chest. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the sun filled the room with early morning light. Poppy crowns were everywhere – hung on the bed posts and chairs, on the vanity, atop the mantelpiece. She checked, and there was one atop her head.

"You're awake."

Cole was kneeling next to the bed, staring at her. He wore one of his blousy shirts with no doublet, brown, muddy trousers, and surprisingly no hat. His hair was lank and unwashed. She turned and smiled shakily at him.

"Hello. I seem to have slept in. Sorry to keep you waiting."

Cole smiled back, a slow, wide smile that erased every sign of otherness in his eyes.

"Can you move Dagger for me?" She placed a hand on the nug's back. "I think he slept on my arm. It's completely numb."

Cole's smile dropped a bit. "Moving Dagger won't help. Your mind can't hear your arm."

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

Before Cole could answer, the door flew open and people flooded into the room – two healers, their attendants, Solas, Varric, Mathilde, and to Sinead's surprise the Inquisitor.

"Ser, the likelihood of the young lady waking from her sleep is very low," one of the healers said sternly, looking at Solas while she spoke. "I don't care what sort of business you got up to in the Fade, it's bad form to bolster hope in this situation."

"Ma'am, I suggest you check your charge before making your diagnosis," Solas said sardonically, waving a hand at Sinead.

The second, younger healer had already seen Sinead's open eyes and was staring at her like she was an abomination. The elder turned to Sinead with a sour look, then gasped and placed her hand on her mouth.

"Maker's breath, girl, don't just stand there, check her comprehension," the elder healer snapped at the younger. The younger hopped to, asking Sinead general questions about where she was and who the people in her room were.

"I think she's experienced no mental deterioration, madam," the healer said, awed. "You pulled her from the brink successfully."

"Only with the Maker's blessing," the elder said, feeling Sinead's head and cheeks, and looking into her eyes. "You've been in stasis for five days, ma fille. I've rarely seen anyone awaken after such a long period."

"Sorry to disappoint," Sinead said cheerfully. "Is it normal to be so thirsty?"

"Yes. And we'll want you walking around today. The stasis keeps you from dehydration and atrophy, but both will catch up with you right quick if we don't address it immediately." The healer snapped at her attendants, and they hurried away.

"Yes all right, but before all that, can someone please tell me what's wrong with my arm?" Sinead shifted her right shoulder, rolling it and lifting it, but her arm remained motionless, lying on her stomach beneath a groggy Dagger who did not appreciate his sleep being interrupted. "I keep trying to move it, but it feels stuck somehow. I remember it being broken – is it still in stasis?"

There were glances between the Inquisition crew, and the healer clucked and patted Sinead's cheek.

"Your arm was a mess, my darling. Like sausage from a terrible butcher. And not only that, veins and nerves withered away, the bones like dried pasta. We saved it, but only just." The healer scooted Dagger off Sinead's chest and picked up her right forearm. "Tell me what you feel."

Her hand hung limp, flopping over as the healer straightened her arm at the elbow. She felt nothing, just a light tug on the shoulder. Her stomach sank. She shook her head.

"It's as I thought. The nerve damage was too much." The healer sighed and carefully arranged Sinead's arm once again atop her chest. "You have your arm, my love, but you're unlikely to ever be able to use it again."

Sinead blinked, stunned. "Oh."

* * *

The rest of the day was a blur of visits and activity. The healers insisted that she eat and drink, which she did in the company of the Inquisitor, Solas, Varric and Cole. Mathilde combed out her hair and braided it in plaits while she ate and the others caught her up on her missing time.

"The Inquisitor closed the rift you found at the Spire, but she wants to explore the Pit and make sure there's not another one down there. The veil is super thin, I guess." Varric shook his head. "I should've come with you guys, Dusty. Can't believe I wasn't there."

"Please don't feel bad. We weren't expecting the worst, else we would not have gone down there," she said through mouthfuls of porridge. "Though we should have, given Cole's warnings."

"You were lucky. The demons coming from that rift were incredibly strong. I'm surprised they hadn't made it to the upper levels." The Inquisitor patted her leg. "Oh, and I feel all of Skyhold is waiting to hear of your recovery. The amulet around your neck is from Dagna, by the way. Apparently it increases health and recovery time. And Josephine was insistent on regular progress reports."

"Luckily it will be happy news in your next report," Solas said with a smile. "I admit, when I received the summons to try and wake you, my lady, I had little hope of succeeding. But Cole insisted I try – he said your mind was still there, just trapped by a nightmare. And so it was."

"Looks like we should all pay a little more attention to the kid." Varric ruffled Cole's hair. Cole was still kneeling by the bed, watching everyone in turn. "He was the one who told the Inquisitor to bring the nug. And he's barely left the room, aside from whenever he got the flowers to make these." Varric held up one of the flower crowns laying on the vanity.

"I thought they would help," Cole said softly.

Sinead smiled at him. "I know they did." Then she caught a look from Solas and her smile wavered.

After she ate, the healers insisted that she walk around the room to shake off the last of the stasis spell. Mathilde found a scarf to tie up her arm, and she slowly padded around on wobbly feet. She felt strangely unbalanced without her right arm, like her body was keeling to the left even when it was straight. They did this throughout the day, and slowly her legs began to strengthen. The last time she walked, she strolled with ease, as if she hadn't been bedridden for nearly a week.

Between walking sessions, she was visited by Enchanter Finn and the students. They brought flowers and chocolates, the girls kissing her on both cheeks when they handed her their gifts.

Enchanter Finn was beside himself with guilt. "I thought you were right behind me," he said, taking her hand. "I swear it, if I had known you were still in that room, I would have come instantly."

"You couldn't have known if you were running like you should have been," Sinead squeezed his hand. "And if you had turned back, it may have been two of us needing a healer."

"No excuses, no excuses. When Cole carried you up from the Pit, broken and unresponsive, well – "

"We thought you were dead, my lady!" one of the students piped up.

Finn shot him a withering glare. "We had little hope, it's true. I poured mana into you, but none of it seemed to be enough."

He gave her an update on the archive project – the Skyhold collection had been shipped, and the Pit was off limits until the Inquisitor gave the all clear.

"Though in all truth, it's likely to be closed by the Chantry indefinitely, or at least until we have a sensible Divine," Finn said bitterly. "Even news of the locked archive wasn't enough to convince the Holy Mother to keep it open."

Finally, near the end of the day, her room was cleared out by the healers, who demanded that she be left to rest.

"I've had enough rest to last quite a while," she insisted, but the healers would not budge, shooing away visitors.

"I'll be off to Skyhold tomorrow," the Inquisitor said.

"As will I." Solas nodded to Sinead. "Be well, Lady Archivist. We shall see you soon."

"And I'll see you tomorrow," Varric said, giving her a small salute. "I got you in this mess. I'll leave when you leave."

The healers gave her one last check up, asking her questions and listening to her heart. Then they too were gone, and she was left alone with Dagger. And, of course, Cole, who had slipped behind her changing screen when the healers came to clear the room. Now he slipped out again and carefully avoided her legs as he climbed up on the end of her bed, crossed his legs and clasped his hands in his lap.

Sinead sat up against her pillow, struggling a little to do it with one hand. He moved to help her, but she shook her head, steadying herself.

"I have to figure out how to do it on my own," she said. "I most dread learning how to write. My script was never very good – I can imagine how awful it will be when left handed."

"Maybe your left hand was always your good hand, and you never knew it. And now you'll have the chance to try."

Sinead laughed. "Was that an actual joke? Varric must be getting through to you."

Cole gave her a small smile, but he was working his hands in his lap. "You nearly died to save me. You didn't have to go that far. Why?"

"Because you nearly died to save  _me_ ," she replied. "There was no way I'd let that happen. Never." She looked down at her hand guiltily. "Is it true that you didn't leave the room this week?"

"Yes. Except for the poppies."

"Why? What of all the other people in the city who needed help over the last few days?"

"They weren't as important."

She looked up, shocked. "You didn't just say that."

He pushed his hair from his eyes with the back of a hand and stared at her steadily. "You were lost in dreams, drifting, dragged into nightmares. I couldn't leave you alone like that. I tried to follow, but the Fade wouldn't let me. And when I left, even for a moment, your dreams darkened. I was…afraid to go anywhere for long. I was afraid you'd not be able to find your way back."

Her heart thrilled, but it was immediately stifled by remorse.  _My desires and actions have consequences_ , she thought.

"You're thinking something sad." He cocked his head. "What's wrong?"

"You didn't hear? Is it still getting harder to listen?"

"Not any harder than before. You're just getting better at keeping me from hearing things you don't want me to hear. Druffaloes everywhere, ones you can't even see." He brushed her dead arm. "Is it this?"

"No. I'm sure it will hit me eventually, but not yet." She sighed and closed her eyes. "I can't be more important than other people to you, Cole. I  _can't_. I asked you to help the Enchanter and his students out of the Pit. You couldn't have done that and also helped me in the time it took for you to return. You ran back for me, leaving seven people to fend for themselves."

"They were safe. You weren't."

"I wasn't safe because of my own choice, and you nearly died because of it," she snapped. "Because you came back for me like a – a damned fool."

Cole was surprised. He furrowed his brow. "You would have died if I hadn't come back."

"And if I did that would've been my fault. But if you had died because of me - if you had died." She shook her head. "I would have preferred to die alone than see you die in front of me. I can't even – it hurts to think of it."

"I –" He stopped. "You're saying more than what you're saying."

She fingered the scarf that held her arm in place. "It's my fault, really. I've been such an idiot, the way I act, the way I – I haven't been thinking of the consequences."

"Sinead –"

"And how could I call myself a friend, a true friend, if I kept acting like my actions and my thoughts don't matter?"

" – what has Solas said to you about me?"

"I think I should give you a little space, is all. A little time to re-center on your purpose. I've been very selfish with your time and I – you understand, don't you?"

He was silent a moment. His face was a mix of emotions, and eventually anger won out. "I do understand. I understand more than you think I do." He slipped off the bed and began to pace. "I understand that you ran back into the room for a hairpin, a trinket, a token of love and obligation and duty that means  _nothing_  without someone to give it meaning. And you've done it before, running into danger for the tokens, the things you think are memories made manifest in a book or a game or a pair of carved wooden pins. But they aren't memories, they're just  _things_."

He swept the poppy crowns from the vanity, revealing the copy of  _Fifteen Dreams_  Sinead had stolen from the Spire as well as her mother's pins. He picked them up, book in one hand, pins in the other.

"These are why you almost died. It wasn't me or you or anything that Solas told you, it was these. At the Gallows, in Haven, in the Spire, you didn't run away, you ran towards, not to help, but to save these  _things_."

Her anger flared high. "They aren't  _things_. They're all I have left."

"Not true. You have the memories, the stories, the song. And this isn't even the right book, it just has the same name." He was holding the pins and the book in front of him as if they were contaminated with something foul. "I know you will do it again. You'll risk your life any time they're threatened. At least when I ran back into the demons' nest, it was to save a  _person_."

Sinead jerked back as if she had been slapped. "You think I wouldn't have run back for a person?"

"Of course you would. But you would also run back for this…this… _shit_." He looked her square in the eye. "I'll make sure you never need to again."

He threw the pins and the book into the fire.

Sinead screamed and waved her arm at Cole. He flew across the room, landing against the adjoining door and falling on his side as she curled her hand into a fist, extinguishing the flames in the hearth. She scrambled out of bed, tripping and falling to her knees, and crawled to the hearth, gingerly picking the pins and the smoldering book out of the still warm coals.

"How could you," she said, her voice cracking, wiping the soot from the pins. "How  _dare_  you?"

She pushed unsteadily to her feet and walked toward Cole, clenching the pins in her fist. He picked himself up with a groan, holding his side. The look on his face was stormy and unrepentant.

"Do you know what you almost did?" She shook the pins in his face. "Are you even capable of understanding?"

"I understand." He squared his chin. "I was helping."

Fury filled her. She flicked her hand and the door opened with a crash. Then she shoved Cole over the threshold and into a surprised and open mouthed Varric and slammed the door. She leaned against it, breathing hard.

"Okay, what in Andraste's lily white ass just happened?"

"I…don't know." Cole sounded stunned. "I was so  _angry_. She blames herself, but for the wrong thing, and she'd do it again and she listens to Solas even though he thinks of himself when he speaks and then…" His voice filled with misery. "And then I threw her hairpins in the fire."

Varric whistled. "That was, ah. Okay, actually, if I'm piecing together everything right, it was almost a normal reaction. Unfortunately, it's a normal really, really shitty reaction." He sighed. "This is a royal fuck up, kid. Revel in your first."

"She's very angry at me."

"Yeah, I think she has that right. She gonna be okay?"

"I don't know. All I hear are druffaloes. I'm so sorry, Sinead."

She heard Cole's hand brush against the door. She backed away as quietly as she could, holding the pins against her chest. Tears welled in her eyes and she brushed them angrily away. She relit the fire with a turn of her hand and picked up the copy of  _Fifteen Dreams_. She stared at it for a moment, then threw it against the wall and curled up in the bed, cradling the pins and crying.


	25. Books

Cole was gone, having left with Solas and the Inquisitor. Sinead felt a mix of relief and emptiness. She was still angry at him for nearly destroying her mother's hairpins, but him leaving without saying goodbye hurt her. She tried to tell herself that it was for the best, but it was empty comfort.

Varric was true to his word – he stayed in Val Royeaux the two days it took for the healers to give her a clean bill of health so he could escort her back to Skyhold. And to her embarrassment, Mathilde was also traveling with her, as she had been given a position as secretary to the Lady Archivist in a flurry of ravens sent back and forth between Mathilde and Josephine on the sly.

"My Lady Montilyet and I have a long history," Mathilde said as she packed Sinead's things. "I was positioned here as a concierge to any in the Inquisition who may need a little guidance with the nobles of Val Royeaux. But a quieter life taking notes amongst old books would be nice, for a while. Hopefully there will be less assassination attempts to disrupt."

"'Secretary' sounds like a very proper title, and Maker knows I will need someone to write notes while my left hand learns how to shape letters that don't look like indecipherable runes," Sinead said as she struggled into a long tunic, trying to feed her limp arm into a sleeve. "But what I hear is 'official nursemaid of the poor armless girl.' And if that's the case, then please don't concern yourself with me. I can't imagine you'd want to be my caretaker."

"I was thinking less a caretaker and more a second pair of hands, which, if you would forgive my lady, you do need." Mathilde eyed her critically as she tried to tie her sash, leaning against the vanity to hold it tight. Mathilde took the ends of the sash from her and tied them neatly. "There are costume choices that can be made to make you more independent. More belts, more buttons, less ties."

"More wardrobe decisions. When I became the head of Skyhold's archive I never considered the amount of time I'd have to spend thinking of clothes." She slipped a sling over her head, pulling her arm through it. Mathilde had commissioned it for her – it was made of blue linen with wide shoulder straps and a small buckle she could use to attach it to a belt or sash to keep her arm from swinging around. "I'm sure I'll get it eventually without someone coddling me."

"Of course my lady." Mathilde picked up Sinead's hairpins. "And what of your braids?"

"I…hmmm." Sinead looked in the mirror, fingering her hair. It was loose and fluffed out from its morning brushing, reaching far past her shoulders. "It wouldn't be very professional to have it flying everywhere like this. I suppose I could cut it…"

"Very well." Mathilde set down the pins and picked up a pair of shears. "Would you like to celebrate your independence now?"

Sinead did not speak for a moment, looking at the pins. She shook her head and brushed a few tears from her eyes.

"Sorry. I'm just starting to realize that having one working arm is going to be quite a hassle. I can't even tie a damned sash, let alone fix my own hair. I don't think I've ever felt so helpless."

Mathilde set down the shears. "Asking for help is not the same as being helpless, my lady." She picked up the pins and braided Sinead's hair.

* * *

Her return to Skyhold was muted, by her choice. The carriage arrived late in the evening, and she went straight for her quarters, asking Mathilde for time alone. The next day, after Mathilde had helped her dress, she waited in her room for Josephine's summons. She knew the time was approaching when she'd have to walk through the great hall with her sling, head high and nonchalant look on her face, but she was trying her best to avoid that time for as long as possible.

Finally Hortensia knocked on her door and she knew she could wait no longer. She placed her arm in the sling, straightened her back and exited her quarters. As she passed acquaintances and strangers, people who never spoke to her in the past greeted her with a shake of the hand and kind words. Her face burned at the attention, but she nodded and smiled and thanked them until she was safe in Josephine's office.

Josephine got up from her desk as she entered, taking her hand and giving her a concerned look. "So it is true about your arm?"

"It seems so." She wiggled her shoulder. "I can't feel a thing. Just dead weight."

"Words cannot express how sorry I am."

"It's okay, my lady. No one died, which is the rather important and often forgotten fact." Sinead smiled and slipped her hand from Josephine's.

"Because you called down the fires of Andraste, I hear." Josephine arched a brow.

"Maker, did that rumor make it all the way here?"

"It has made it all over the academic world." Josephine crossed over to her desk and spread a stack of letters. "Your colleagues at the University of Orlais have very big mouths."

"My lady, I'm sorry –"

"Why are you sorry? Do you know how beneficial your story is? Whether it's true or not that Andraste herself assisted you, it is known that our head archivist, in the pursuit of old and lost wisdom, was attacked by demons that she vanquished on her own with flames. The Inquisitor's claim of being the Herald, though not through direct contact with Andraste, has become truth. Andraste protects those who work for the Herald – that is what people hear when they tell your story." Josephine picked up one of the letters. "What's more, your additions to the Skyhold collection have made waves. I have multiple requests for full lists of our archives, for requests to house researchers to study in our keep, for trades, for apprenticeships. And all of them mention the woman who would lose an arm for knowledge."

Sinead laughed in disbelief. "There are men and women who have died to keep this world from falling to a maniacal ancient Tevinter. What's so exciting about a librarian who didn't run away when she should have?"

"People speak of the dead as well, my lady." Josephine sorted through the letters, pulling out a stack. "Your story is but one part of the full narrative of the Inquisition. One more tale to admire, to help us gain trust, to help us do good in the world. These are the requests for apprentices. We can afford four, if you wish to take them on."

Sinead took the letters. "Four? That means our library will be fully staffed."

"Indeed it does." Josephine folded her hands. "We have a collection that is an envy of the world. We have a brilliant archivist who regularly goes on scholarly trips. And we have a head archivist, La Lotus Noir, who fights demons for books. I think fully staffing the library is a necessity at this point with the attention it's receiving, don't you think?"

Sinead reeled. "That does seem appropriate," she said weakly.

"Congratulations, my lady. You have worked hard to bring the library to this level. I doubt it could have been done without your help and devotion to our cause." Josephine picked up her quill. "Give me the names of the apprentices you choose by tomorrow if you could. And welcome home, Sinead."

She exited Josephine's office, astonished. She had done it – in less than a year, the Skyhold library had become a destination for academics worldwide. She wanted to jump, to cry out, to run around scattering bits of colorful paper, to dance.

The thought of dancing subdued her joy. She found that her greatest desire was to run to the Herald's Rest and giddily spill her good news to Cole. But that was impossible – until she was free from her shameful yearning, she would not speak to him. The loneliness within her was palpable.

It took many deep breaths to and a herd of druffalo to banish Cole from her mind. Instead she put on a smile and ran to the library, ignoring the odd looks of the great hall nobles, and surprised Sister Guerrin by hugging the wiry priest while she shelved books.

"What's this, my lady?" the sister sputtered. She patted Sinead's dead arm. "Welcome back, I'm sure. I heard that the demons took a piece of you."

"Oh, this. Yes, it's a pain in the arse. But look!" She held out the letters. "We get four underlings out of it."

"You're joking." Guerrin snatched the letters away, flipping through them. "For the love of the Maker, we can have normal schedules."

"Normal schedules, normal shelving times, normal upkeep, normal research projects." She did a little twirl. "We're a real library, sister!"

Marcel caught sight of her from across the room and ran over, taking her hand. "Ma Dame de Lotus! Oh, you come back to us healthy, as beautiful as ever."

"Marcel, I could kick you for that nickname." She laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "How do you feel about having a quad of young men and women to boss around?"

Marcel's eyes widened. "Someone to shelve the books and take the notes and have the nobles yell at when the copy of  _Her Mistress's Stockings_  is still out on loan." He sounded awestruck.

"Maker's breath, I don't think I've ever been so happy to have a colleague grievously injured," the sister said with a laugh.

"Just so. Don't work too hard today, because tonight we are all having drinks!"

* * *

Settling back into the routine of Skyhold was like sliding on an old shoe. Within days Sinead returned to her days at the library, her lunches with Dagna, her evenings talking to Solas or Varric. To Sinead's relief, Dagna did not tiptoe around the subject of her arm – rather, the arcanist went to work drawing plans for enchanted braces that could move her dead limb around with a thought.

"It's not a simple design," Dagna said, sketching out a rough draft between bites of ham. "This could take years of development."

"I don't know how I feel about being your test subject." Sinead tossed some bread at Dagger, scratching him behind the ears as he munched. "The sling works fine. It may be better just to make peace with my dead arm than hope for mechanical miracles."

"Hey, this isn't just about you. I'm thinking of things that could revolutionize prosthetics - false arms and hands and legs that move just like the real thing. I mean, the arm is just a lever and pulley system if you get down to the basics. The trick is to make it move on command."

"You're right, it would be quite revolutionary." Sinead smiled. "Far be it from me to stop progress."

"So you'd try on a prototype if I made one?"

"Only if you were absolutely sure it wouldn't kill me or make my arm disintegrate."

"Hm. I  _guess_  I could use dummies for my beta designs…"

Dagna did not mention the braces again, which made Sinead nervous – the more secretive Dagna was, the more intense and potentially dangerous the project was sure to be.

The new staff joined the library, looking far younger than Sinead recalled herself at the ages of 17 and 18. One of them made the mistake of addressing Sister Guerrin as the Lady Archivist on her first day, which made the sister snap, "Do I look like a lady to you, missy?" frightening the poor girl. But within a week the apprentices had a handle on their tasks, and their presence was a blessing to Marcel, the sister and Sinead. Sinead begrudgingly admitted to herself that Mathilde's presence was equally a blessing, and not only for her clothing – between the letters that were coming in from all over Thedas about the Skyhold collection and the research she was tasked with, a person with clear handwriting was necessary to properly do her job.

And so life went on, research went on, work went on, friendships went on. But it was not the same as before Val Royeaux. The old shoe was loose and uncomfortable. She went through the motions as she did when the darkness had swallowed her after Avery's death, but she could not shake the emptiness. Something was missing, and she feared what it meant that she felt so alone.

It was easy to ignore when Cole was on missions, but when the servants chattered about the little gifts they'd find on the end of their beds or the kittens in the stable suddenly found their way into certain bedrooms dependent on the kitten needs of the bedrooms' occupants, she longed to pick up a book and run up the tavern stairs like old times. Only by repeating her mantra that it was all for the best was she able to keep the emptiness from eating away at her thoughts.

It did not help that Cole was leaving her books again. They would appear on her pillow, or on top of her research, or once in a corner of the Undercroft, found by Dagna and passed along at lunch. And while the books he left had always been treasures, now they were extraordinary finds – a large, painstakingly detailed Atlas from ancient Tevinter, a picture book of medicinal plants from an ancient Thaig, a book in Elven that detailed burial rituals of the ancients. She would page through the books in wonder, honored to touch such beautiful finds, but also with guilt, for surely Cole's time could be better spent then searching out books for her. She placed each book in a box under her work table, afraid that she would be condoning the gifts if she added them to the library collection.

A month after her return to Skyhold, when she nearly had a small library of her own in Cole's gifts, she tried to give them back to Cole through Varric.

"Okay, I've had about enough of this whatever it is you're doing," Varric replied, pushing the box of books back toward her. "You've been like a wooden cutout of yourself since you got back. And the kid's more stable, a shitload happier, but he sinks like a stone if you're mentioned. I get that you're still angry –"

"I'm not angry," Sinead cut in. "I haven't been angry at Cole in quite a while. It was a misunderstanding that went too far, and I'm fairly sure these books are his apology. You can tell him I accept when you return them."

"I'm not returning anything." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "What are you doing with the whole avoiding him thing? Didn't you two do this before?"

"That was different. He thought he was hurting me, and was wrong. I…well, I –" She squared her shoulders. "I can't be around him anymore."

"Why, because you love him?"

Sinead blushed bright red. "I knew that you knew," she muttered.

"Uh, I hate to break it to you Dusty, but it's not exactly a secret." Varric threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the library door. "Sparkler's had a pool going for months on when you two would finally hook up. Bull's lost money three times now."

"Maker, am I the only one who didn't see?" She hid her face in her hand. "I am such an embarrassment."

Varric gave her a kind look. "You're not the first person who ever had doubts about who they fell for. Believe me."

She sat hard in the chair next to him. "I didn't fall for someone from the wrong family or some brooder with baggage. I'm in love with someone who is completely unattainable." She wiped away the wetness that gathered at her eyes. "And even still, it's too  _much_. I can't think about it or I start to shake. What is wrong with me?"

"Unattainable. Interesting." Varric flipped open the lid of the box and whistled. "You've got thousands of sovereigns worth of books in here, do you know that? Must have taken a lot of effort to find all this."

"I am aware. All the time he spent that could have been for someone else…"

"But that's the point, you know. When you care for someone, really care for them, everything else is like background noise for a while. You still do all the things that make you happy and give your life purpose, but now you have this new thing, this shiny new feeling that fades out everything else."

Sinead slipped down her chair. "You're not making this better," she groaned. "Because if you're saying what I think you're saying, then it's a bigger problem than I thought."

"I don't know how the kid feels about you, to be honest." Varric closed the box. "I asked him once while you were still out cold. I mean, he just holed himself in your room with piles of flowers making chains. It was one of the more bizarre things I've seen him do. And do you know what he told me? 'It's too real.' Can't make heads or tails of that answer."

"I can." Sinead rubbed her arm, her stomach sinking. "This is all wrong. I am all wrong."

"Why?"

"Because it's not right."

"Not right how?"

"Because he's too new!" she burst out. "He's too…he's an  _innocent_ , Varric. It's like being in love with –" She blushed heavily. "- with a  _child_."

Varric did not speak for a moment, shocked.

"Now that I didn't expect," he said finally, leaning against the table. "Do you seriously consider Cole like child? Yeah, he understands things differently from us, and he's still learning how the world works, but a  _child_?" He held up his hands. "Listen, if he was still all spirity, I don't think I'd argue with you, but the kid's as close to human as you can get and still be made of magic or Fade or whatever it is he's made of. He's got a different way of seeing things, but that doesn't make him an innocent, not like that. I mean, to see him as a child – that's pretty condescending, don't you think?"

She shook her head. "Yes. Maybe. I don't know. I can't think straight." She buried her fingers into her braid. "I was just his friend, I didn't mean to – and he's still so  _new_ ," she moaned. "It's the oldest story – the new, innocent being tempted by the corrupted, tainted creature who knows things he doesn't."

Varric laughed loudly. "Are you kidding me? Where are you getting this shit? Dusty, no offense, but you're not exactly a desire demon, if you catch my drift." He slid a goblet of wine toward her. "You know what I see? I see a nice kid who had a hard start to life and has some major hang-ups because of it. Doesn't quite have these weird things called 'emotions' down, and if pushed too hard gets lost in them. Knows a bit too much about death and not enough about things like love and friendship. Innocent, sure, but the kind of innocence that it's okay to lose when the time's right."

"You always saw Cole as something he isn't  _quite_ ," she muttered, taking a full gulp of wine.

"I'm describing you," he said with a chuckle. "This is too funny. One kid says it's too much. The other says it's too real. You two are quite the pair."

She set down the goblet, angry and embarrassed. "Are you going to give the books to him or not?" she snapped.

"Nope. I'll send him your way, but if you want to give them back you'll have to talk to him yourself."

"Fine." She stood glared at the box. "Then will you help me carry the damned box? It was a pain in the arse to haul downstairs."

* * *

The rest of the day she was a bundle of nerves. She snapped at one of the apprentices, immediately apologized, then snapped again later when he made a similar mistake. She gave up on dictating a letter to a Nevarran publisher because her mind kept wandering and Mathilde kept having to bring her back. She read the same three pages in a large book on the Black City. Finally, late in the evening when the library cleared of everyone save Dorian in his corner and the staff had gone for the night, she took to pacing the floor, checking the shelves for any incorrectly placed books.

She was looking over the section on animals when a hand reached past her and pulled out a book, startling her. She turned to find Cole holding out the book to her. He was in his old leathers and his floppy hat. The sight of him filled a bit of the emptiness, and against her will she relaxed and smiled.

"Please don't chastise Ned again," he said, handing her a book of poetry about bears. "He didn't mean to misplace the book – he was nervous all day because you were tense. His old master would always yell at his underlings when he was tense. It's why he made mistakes."

"I promise I won't scold him again." She sighed and walked the book over to its rightful place while trying to think of what exactly to say.

He followed her hesitantly, running his fingers over the shelves as they walked.

"Varric told me you wanted to speak to me," he said finally. "But that's not true."

She gave him a look and walked over to her work table, opening the box of books and pulling a few out.

He opened his mouth to speak, then paused, examining her eyes. "You aren't still angry at me about the pins."

"I'm not. It's not about the pins." She tapped the atlas. "Are these your apology? I thought so at first, but -"

"At first, yes," he cut in. "Then later, I…I like finding them. The very best books. I know which ones will make you smile when you opened the cover to see what's inside."

She hunched her shoulders. "Why?"

"Because I want to make you happy. It makes me happy to make you happy."

"More than making others happy?"

"I…" He looked down at the books. "I like making everyone happy. I like helping however I can. But there's something more when I make you smile. It's different." He smiled his small smile. "It's like feeding a fire so it won't falter."

Her breathing was shallow. She waved her hand around the pile of books. "How long did it take you to find this marvelous collection? To really search for books that were incredible, beautiful, rare? Did you slow down your team? Was someone who needed help missed because you decided a book for me was more important?"

His head shot up. "No. No, I only looked when there was time. And I made time when I could."

"Why?"

"Because making you happy is important to me." He was starting to sound frustrated. "It's – it gives me pleasure.  _You_  said pleasure is good. That we need it to make our lives happy."

"Maker's breath, don't you dare use that against me," she snapped. "I was talking about small things, things that don't distract you from your true purpose."

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "Everyone knows my purpose but me," he said. "Demon, helper, spirit, killer, kid. Am I not allowed to think more than one thing is important?"

"But I'm not important!" She slapped her hand down on the atlas. "You do such wonderful things, beautiful things. You are out there making a real difference, making the world a better place and - damn it, Cole, I don't want to be the anchor holding you down!"

Cole slammed a fist on the table. "You won't listen because you're too afraid to believe me. You can't corrupt me! You aren't an anchor, or a distraction." He shook his head. "You still think because it takes time for me to understand, to know how people put their thoughts together here, that I'm an innocent, a strip of white linen that can be stained and soiled and sullied. But that's never how it's been. I'm learning, but I'm not innocent. And I can prove it." He unsheathed a dagger from his belt and cut his palm, then held out the blade to her. "Look at them."

"At what?"

"My memories. Like at the White Spire."

She glanced around the library, but the only person within was Dorian, off on the other side of the tower, pointedly reading his book and not looking in their direction.

"I don't even know if I can pull memories without a purpose," she hissed. "Not to mention doing blood magic  _right below the spymaster's lair_."

"You aren't in danger. No one is listening to us because we aren't important enough to watch."

Though her rational voice demanded a refusal, her curiosity won out, wondering both if she could read another's mind intentionally and what exactly Cole wanted to show her. She pursed her lips, then picked up the atlas and propped it up as a screen. Then she held out her hand. Cole made a quick, shallow cut. She pulled on the power, wrapped it around her mana, and clasped Cole's bleeding hand, mingling his blood with hers.

She gasped. Her head filled with images of death –  _death caused by two hands, two knives, go where the knife must go, hit the soft place, the place where it ends quickly, stop the pain they cause, cut the throat, hit the temple, through the eye, angle up into the chest, fast, fast, always fast and hidden, bandits, Templars, mages, Vinatori, creatures, killers all who must die for others to live. And behind these deaths, these necessary deaths, the bad times, the unknowing times, when killing filled the hole and made things real, when he looked into their eyes…_

She pulled away, shaking. Her hand and cheeks were cold.

"Why did you show me that?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "All those people."

Cole nodded. "I killed them. I told you before I help the helpless, which means sometimes I must kill the killers."

She closed her eyes, dizzy. "And you like it."

"I like that it helps." He brushed his fingers through the blood on his hand. "I like it more when they have no remorse – it's easier to forget that they could have been people. When I hear their anxiety and anguish and rationalizations and regret, it isn't so easy. But they made their choice, and I have to do what I must to help."

She always knew who he was – the hand and the blade, the hat and the helm. But seeing the truth of his actions was different than simply knowing. She could feel the panic at the edge of her mind, threatening to spill over.

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Yes." She opened her eyes. "I'm afraid of what you're capable of becoming if you go to the bad."

"You think you're the bad." He lifted his chin, staring at her with his cool eyes. "Everyone can become something terrible. But I already am what you saw. You didn't make me this way. No one made me this way. I am me because I want to be. Do you think I'm terrible?"

She was silent for a moment. She healed her hand, then touched his wound and healed it as well.

"No," she said finally. "I don't think you're terrible. I don't think I  _can_  think you're terrible. Maker's breath, Cole, you just showed me visions of slaughter. You nearly burned my mother's pins, which will take me a long time to forgive, even if I'm not angry anymore. But I still can't think you terrible." She pulled her hand back. "You are right, however. You aren't innocent. No one with that much blood on their hands is innocent."

He nodded. "You aren't innocent, either. But you're not the bad."

She looked away, and he quickly moved around the table until he was back in her line of vision.

"You're not the bad," he said again, firmly. "I was angry because you think you're the blackness, that you need to keep away to keep others safe, that I can be corrupted by you, but you're the opposite. The blackness is everywhere, thick and vast and cold, but there are sparks piercing the darkness. Sometimes they don't know who they are, they think it's hopeless, they think they're only specks. But what's so bad about being a speck? The stars are only specks, and they still shine whether they know it or not, their fires unquenchable."

Her dizziness increased. "You heard me think of you as a speck of light. In the Spire."

"Yes." He hesitantly brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen in her eyes. "And you're a speck of light too, Sinead. Please don't flicker out yet."

Her heart raced. She jumped up from her chair, knocking the table and making the pile of books topple.

"Don't say things like that," she said, voice shaking, backing away. "You can't say things like that. I'm not – I can't –" She stopped. Her breath was shallow.

Cole stared at her, sadness edging his eyes. "It's too much." He looked down. "I'm sorry."

"Cole, I –"

"No, I wasn't thinking. Please, just," he waved a hand distractedly. "Forget."

Before she could say another word, he walked off, his hands curling and uncurling, exiting the library through the door to the barricades. She stood for a moment, stunned.

"Excuse me, Lady Archivist?" Dorian called across the library. "Are you still all there? I was sure he couldn't do that forgetting trick anymore."

"He can't." Sinead sat down, pressing her hand against her forehead.

"Ah. Well then, if I may say something unsolicited?"

"Since when do you ask permission to say anything unsolicited, Master Pavus?" she snapped.

"Good point. Well, do you know that we have a phrase back in Tevinter for that little show I just witnessed? We call it cocking things up."

She turned toward him, shooting him a hard look. He shrugged and turned a page in his book.

"I thought you liked learning new things."


	26. Eluvian

Skyhold was preparing for war. Everyone did their part to help organize the assault against Corypheus's forces in the Arbor Wilds – the smithy was hot with use, the servants ran back and forth with messages, the cooks cut down their stock to help add to the supplies, the stable hands readied the mounts, the tavern served up free drinks to the soldiers who suffered drill after drill under Cullen's watch. Even some of the visiting nobility added to the effort, writing letters to allies for supplies and fighting men.

The library was no less busy – every tome on the ancient elves was pulled, poured over, analyzed for any suggestion of a secret it might hold that would give the Inquisitor a key to what type of ruin Corypheus was searching for. Solas and Sinead worked together, aided by Marcel and Sister Guerrin at turns, marking and translating any passage considered possibly useful.

Sinead was glad of the work, though it meant late nights and early mornings – anything that kept her from thinking of her personal life was a welcome distraction. She plumbed the depths of lore, making lopsided, left-handed notes of any line from prose or poem or prayer that caught her eye. But the deeper she got, the stranger the words seemed to her. There were contradictions that could only lead to odd interpretations, and most frustratingly hints of something lost that was once known so well that a passing mention was deemed enough for a reader to understand the reference.

She was in Solas's office late the night before the army was to march, a pile of books around her at the small table she set up for herself, when she finally lost patience, pushing a book away from her with a growl of disgust.

Solas looked up from his own work. "No luck, Lady Archivist?"

"Plenty of luck. Plenty to find," she replied, working her fingers deep into her braid. "But I can't make sense of it. This poem has hints of Mythal being something of vengeance or justice. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then it mentions Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf himself, as if he's an ally. The trickster, the betrayer of the entire elven pantheon, is made into a dear friend of the representative of lawful good. It reads like nonsense. And then here, and here and here –" she tapped three open books, " – we have mention of orbs similar in description to Corypheus's. Good. And Mythal is paired with these mentions. Wonderful! Something about power, something about strength unknowable – all understandable. But then, boom, godlike power none should touch, given to only the worthy, and something in here about laying with the sleeping ones – it makes the orbs seem fantastically rare, and usually locked up with their owners during uthenera. If that's the case, how in the darkness of the Void did Corypheus get his hands on one?

"And he's not the only one with amazing access to ancient elven artifacts." She picked up a book with the Chantry sunburst on its cover. "I pulled texts about Shartan, Andraste's elven general, because the description of the orbs sounded so very familiar to something I've read about him before. Lo and behold, there are tantalizing clues of him also having such an orb, which means a former Tevinter slave, separated from his Elvhenan ancestors by centuries, somehow managed to find a rare, powerful piece of lost magical technology. The implications of such a thing are huge – how did he find it, where did he find it, and did someone help him find it? But that's as far as I get – clues, suggestions, hints, intimations, implications, but nothing  _solid_."

Solas smiled. "It's the life of the academic to never have solid solutions. All one has is questions and more questions."

"I understand that, yes." She set down the book, narrowing her eyes at her research. "But what I'm saying is that there's something here that I feel academics have been  _missing_. Reading between the lines, there's a whole thread of thought and interpretation that has been omitted from investigation or outright ignored. Which, again, makes no sense." She drew a line with her finger from book to book to book. "This is a trail of breadcrumbs, Master Solas. Somewhere at the end of the trail are answers."

Solas chuckled. "Your tenacity impresses me. I'm sure you'll find your answers in time. But now it's late, and you've done all you can to aid us before the battle. Perhaps you should sleep?"

As if prompted, she yawned. "How can I sleep? Tomorrow the Inquisitor marches with most of Skyhold. I have to do all I can –"

"And so you have. Your research these last few weeks has been essential. But dawn is near, and it is time to set down your books." He folded his hands. "Go to sleep, my lady."

She snorted. "You're the one who should sleep. You've only a few hours before your journey, if that candle clock is correct."

"I would, but I have a few more passages on eluvians I'd like to study first."

"Ah, eluvians. I suppose because any time you read about the Temple of Mythal, they come up," she said with a grin. "Well of Sorrows and the place between. Delightfully cryptic."

"Indeed." He seemed to deliberate with himself before speaking again. "Did you know that the Lady Morrigan brought an eluvian to the premises?"

Sinead's mouth dropped. "There's an eluvian here at Skyhold?" she squeaked. "When – how – "

"It was delivered while you were in Val Royeaux, and is now in a room near the Chantry chapel. Its existence has been kept secret for fear of misuse, though Morrigan claims to be the only one who knows its key." He cleared his throat. "I apologize for not telling you sooner. Of all the people in Skyhold, I think you may appreciate it as much as Morrigan does."

"No, I understand. Mission secrecy and all that," she muttered. "Oh, but to have known earlier. She's surely asleep, and there will be no time once dawn breaks – Maker, I'm going to have to wait for weeks for a peek."

"If we survive our encounter with Corypheus, of course."

"Don't say things like that," she snapped. "The battle will be won."

"Are you so sure of our success?"

"Absolutely," she said fervently. "The Inquisitor has done incredible things. I don't doubt that she will lead us to victory."

He nodded slowly. "Your hope bolsters me, my lady." He waved a hand to the door. "Now, go to sleep so that you can see off your friends in the morning. And worry not for the books – if you would please leave them in my office while I'm gone, I would appreciate it. I don't want to lose my notes."

"Understood." She sighed and stretched, feigning another yawn. "I will be up before you go, Master Solas. Then I will wish you luck. But right now, I'm telling you not to die."

"I'll do my best." He smiled. "Good night, Sinead."

She left Solas's office and meandered through the darkened great hall. The fact that there was an eluvian at Skyhold turned over and over in her mind. An eluvian was an incredible device, like something from a tall tale, a mirror that was actually a door to unknown locales. To be so close to something of legend for so long without knowledge made her heart hurt, even more so knowing that she had not the time to interrogate Morrigan about the mirror.

Then again, Morrigan was not a woman one interrogated. Sinead often saw the witch in the gardens with her son, but never made the time to approach her though she knew many things about magic that had been long lost by the Circle. It was the look in Morrigan's eyes whenever she glanced at Sinead – something critical and cold that hit her like a splash of water. She never spoke to the woman, but she was sure Morrigan did not like her.

 _Probably thinks I'm a Circle loyalist_ , she thought.

But to not ask about the eluvian would be madness. She would brave dire looks for the chance to examine such an important ancient elven artifact. Sinead walked through the garden, looking up at the stars and chewing on the words she would say to convince Morrigan she had to see the mirror.

_You see, my lady, as a specialist – no. One must approach this academically, my lady. A full study of this mirror – nonono, still not right._

She stopped at the foot of the stairs to her chambers, looking down the short, torch lit walkway to the room where the eluvian was stored. She ached to be so close to such wonder.

Sinead made a decision.

She stole over to the room, glancing over her shoulder and around the empty garden, and touched the door. Immediately she brought her hand back, hissing and shaking it. A strong enchantment barred the door, something she had never encountered before. It was a spell woven over itself so many times that one could barely feel the space on the other side. She pulled at her mana, testing the weave for weaknesses, but the spell was solid.

 _I should go to bed_ , she thought, releasing her mana. But the thought of the eluvian being just on the other side of the door was too tantalizing to let go. She glanced around the garden, stuck her thumb in her mouth and bit down hard on the tip until she tasted blood. She sucked on her thumb a bit, rolled the power around her mana and felt the spell again.

Now the weave felt pliable, like loose linen. She pressed the spell gently, and found the threads in its construction. She began unraveling it bit by bit, pulling more and more power from her blood to hasten the spell's deconstruction. Finally, with a pop and the smell of ozone, the spell cracked and faded away. She pushed on the door, and it slowly swung open.

The room was dark save for a thin ray of moonlight cutting across the floor. She waved her hand, creating dozens of lanterns to light the room, and then gasped. The eluvian was a dull gray, tall, and plainly adorned, but even from across the room she could feel its power. She stepped toward it cautiously, releasing the power of the blood lest she accidentally wake it. Her hand raised as she walked, trembling, her awe growing with each step.

"That's close enough. I'll thank you to not dirty my eluvian with your bloody fingers."

Sinead spun around. Morrigan stood in the doorway, a smile on her face, but her eyes were cold.

"Hello, Lady Morrigan." She stepped back from the mirror, her stomach sinking. "I apologize for – that is, I heard of your eluvian, and I just – "

"You just. You just intruded into my space and touched my things?" The door slammed shut behind Morrigan. She walked slowly into the room, staff held at her side. "I admit I am impressed that you broke the protective spell, though of course you used blood magic. The stink of it is hovering about you. But even with blood that took skill."

Embarrassment rolled over Sinead. She steeled herself, bowing her head. "Lady Morrigan, please let me apologize. I admit I acted without thought. I just now learned from Master Solas about the existence of the eluvian, and I let my excitement get the better of me."

"Did you." Morrigan stopped near the eluvian, frowning as she swept her eyes over Sinead. "I'll have to have a chat with the elven mage – he seems to have little care for the Inquisition's secrets."

"Again, I apologize." Sinead felt power emanating from Morrigan, strong and full of life. She backed toward the door. "I will leave you to prepare for your journey."

"Oh, don't leave so soon, Lady Archivist." A wave of power washed over Sinead, locking her in her spot. "Actually, I've been meaning to speak to you for some time, but never had the chance. Tis a serendipitous occasion that I find you alone."

Sinead pulled at her blood again, filling with power before pushing at Morrigan's spell. But even as she broke through, another spell wrapped around her, and yet another as she broke through again.

"Enough of that," Morrigan said, irritated.

There was one last wave of power and Sinead felt her will melt away. It was reminiscent of when Rein tried to control her thoughts. But instead of her mind being controlled, she simply lost the desire to fight against Morrigan.

"What did you do?" her voice was casual, unworried, though her mind raced in terror.

"Worry not, I shan't have you under my will for long." Morrigan circled her. "That is, unless I feel you pose a threat."

"Why do you think I'm a threat?"

"I told you, you stink of blood magic. I've never been against blood magic, but I consider it a sloppy practice for undisciplined mages, and it has a habit of attracting demons. I have no great love for the Chantry, but I understand their superstitious fears." She took Sinead's chin in her hand. "Yet here you are, your connection to the Fade thin, your aura like a red haze, and they speak not but praise for you, little malificar. Now, how can that be? Who do you have under your sway?"

"No one," Sinead said calmly. "I don't use my skills for such things. I practice without malice."

Morrigan laughed. "What a foolish phrase. No malice does not mean no harm. There are plenty of monsters in the world who do abominable things with no malice. How do you use your power with no malice?"

"I heal. I fight if attacked."

"You break into secret rooms." She clucked her tongue and circled again around Sinead. "You aren't telling the full truth. I see the death in your aura. You've taken someone's blood, taken their life to feed your own power. Tell me."

The blackness filled Sinead, panic blocking her words as Morrigan's spell fought for her to speak. She shook as the panic rose.

"Ah, now you fight back. Very good, Lady Archivist." More power surrounded Sinead, dizzying her. "Tell me, who did you kill to feed your little habit? What are you hiding from the Inquisition, girl?"

Her mouth opened and closed with soundless words. Black spots filled her vision as her heart raced. Her breathing grew short and shallow.

"I am very impressed." Morrigan patted her cheek. "But please don't make me break your mind for answers. T'would take time to explain, I think."

Suddenly someone pounded on the door. "Morrigan, you must stop!"

"What now?" Morrigan grumbled, opening the door with a wave of her hand.

Cole stood at the entrance, breathing heavily. He was clothed in his armor, save for his helm – his floppy brimmed hat hid his face. He ran to Sinead, checking her eyes and feeling her cheeks.

"Ah, here comes your little spirit you have under your thrall," Morrigan said with amusement.

"I am no one's thrall," Cole said, giving her a dark look.

"There are more ways to be bound than by blood, young man." She pointed at the door. "Now if you would please leave, the lady and I were having a discussion."

"She can't answer your questions." Cole sounded frustrated, as if he felt Morrigan should know this. "The blackness keeps the words from her tongue."

"The blackness?" Morrigan crossed her arms. "What nonsense."

"It's true – a bleak, burrowing blackness that edges the thoughts, waiting to swallow her. Names and memories make it manifest. The name you want is one of them." He was pleading. "I know you want to protect, to seek out any who would harm, but she's not one of them. She means her words – with no malice."

Morrigan looked from Sinead to Cole. "She did kill another by taking power from their blood."

"Rein. He tried to take her mind. She took his life and used the power to kill the Templars who would kill the children."

Morrigan's eyes widened. "Is that so? So the story of the little mage and the children is true?"

"She did not fight an abomination or give a speech to Cullen like in the story."

"Has she killed others?"

"Yes. Demons. Darkspawn."

"Humans?"

"No."

"And did she take power from another besides this Rein?"

"No. She uses her own life, her own blood. Please, Morrigan. She's another spark of light."

Morrigan pondered a moment, tapping her chin with her finger. "Very well," she said finally, waving a hand.

Sinead dropped to the floor as the spell let go, gasping for breath as she fought back the panic.

"She was trying to help," Cole soothed, taking her hand. "She doesn't trust mages who hide their power. They remind her of her mother."

"It's my fault," she gasped. "I was the one…who broke into the room…uninvited…like a thief."

"At least she has some sense," Morrigan muttered. "Now if you would kindly leave –"

"Wait." Sinead held up a shaky hand. "Two things: may I please study the eluvian? I promise it's only out of academic interest. And how can you see that I'm a blood mage? You're the second to say so, and I must know."

"You must be joking," Morrigan scoffed. "Do you honestly think I'd tell you a thing after you've proven yourself to be completely untrustworthy?"

"Of course not. But I thought I'd ask anyway." Sinead gave her a hopeful smile.

"Unbelievable." Morrigan shook her head and pointed at the door. "Out."

Sinead scrambled to her feet with Cole's help and walked quickly out of the room.

"Sorry again!" she called as the door slammed behind she and Cole. Then she groaned and hit her forehead with her knuckles. "I am such a fool. I had a chance to know the secrets of something incredible and it's slipped through my fingers."

"Why did you not wait to ask Morrigan to see the mirror?"

"I told you, because I'm a fool." She flopped onto one of the garden benches. "I don't know what I was thinking. I just wanted so much to see…it was odd, like a  _need_  that came over me." She played with a thread on her sling and cleared her throat. "You're certainly making a habit of coming to my rescue. Thank you."

He sat down beside her. "You don't need to be rescued. You just need to stop doing the things that lead to your being in trouble."

"Oh, yes, of course. Why didn't I think of that?"

They were both silent a moment, Sinead picking at threads, Cole kicking at the sod.

"You're all ready to go to war," Sinead said finally. "All suited up. I heard you're in the Inquisitor's party."

"Yes. She wants to know what I feel in the temple." He rubbed his arms. "I don't like the old temples. They feel like sadness and despair and loss and anger."

She looked at him. "Anger?"

"Anger at their loss. And anger at their gods."

"Hm." She looked down again. "This is supposed to be a very big battle. Bigger than any you've faced."

"Yes. And I know what you're going to say. All I can do is try not to die."

She thought for a moment, her chest tight. Her doubts and fears rose up, telling her to bid Cole goodnight and leave him be. But she could not leave him – he was there, in the flesh, hours before he was to set out and face death head on yet again. No matter whether her feelings were right or wrong, they were still strong, and real, and the thought of him dying was unbearable. In an unthinking instant, she reached up and pulled her pins from her hair. Her braid fell down her back, the end unraveling. She held the pins out to him.

He stared at them. "My hair's too short."

A smile flickered on her lips. She took the pins between her teeth, slipped to the ground and kneeled in front of him. Then she threaded each pin into his thick belt.

"You needn't worry about their being damaged," she said as she pulled herself back onto the bench. "They're ironbark. It would take quite a blow for them to splinter."

He brushed his fingers over the carved lilies. "Why?"

"Because you know how important they are to me. So you must bring them back safely, and the only way to do that is to survive."

He closed his eyes and leaned back, quiet for a time. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her through his bangs.

"He was a slave, the man who carved these pins. He was trained to make weapons of incredible strength for his masters, which they used against the humans invading their lands. He ran from them in the night on secret roads, hid away in the forests, and made coin by selling the weapons he made to any who would have them – human, elf, what did it matter if it meant he could eat?"

"One day there was a woman, also of the forest, also a runner from her human masters. She was strong, stubborn, round eared, with thick, black hair. She haggled for a bow, which he gave to her for less than it was worth he was so charmed. Then she taunted him for the price, which charmed him more. He grew to love her, and she him. These were the only things of beauty he ever made with his hands, rough and unskilled and of the wrong wood for trinkets. She loved them all the same."

He went quiet.

"What happened to them?" She asked hesitantly, captivated by the tale. "The man and the woman."

"He was found and executed as a traitor and runaway. She was left to raise their daughters alone in the forest. She gave the eldest an ironbark dagger and the youngest the hairpins, to remember. Now they've been passed down for so long that the memories are gone. Only the pins and the dagger remain."

Her heart sank. "You were right. They have no meaning without someone to remember why they're meaningful."

"You are here. You can remember." He placed the flat of his palm against his belt. "I will keep them safe for you." He studied her a moment, then took off his hat. "Will you take care of my hat while I'm away? The rats like to nibble the rim."

Her heart raced. She smiled. "Of course."

Shyly, he placed the hat on her head, lifting the brim so she could see. His scent drifted around her. She took his hand, blinking back tears.

"Stay safe Cole," she said thickly.

Then she stood and ran for the stairs, cursing her imprudence.


	27. Scrying

Skyhold was unnaturally quiet. The Inquisitor's closest allies and advisors were gone to the Arbor Wilds and war, the advisors' seconds keeping tabs on Skyhold in their absence. The soldiers had marched out, along with many of the smiths and the horse master to help keep the army well fitted. Only a small company was left behind as a guard. The visiting nobles and dignitaries had cleared out as well, given that the fate of the Inquisition's campaign was not yet known and no one wished to be in Skyhold for a retaliatory attack.

Those left behind were the staff and the few family members of staff and soldiers who made their home at the keep. The Herald's Rest was near empty, the great hall abandoned, the library deserted. Even the rookery had only a few cackling crows from the front, sent with updates on the army's progress.

For the first time in months, perhaps years, Sinead felt she had little to do. Marcel, Sister Guerrin and the apprentices used their time to sink into research, the apprentices in particular running to and fro through the stacks searching for tomes related to their theses. She considered doing the same, but her current subject of study was locked up in Solas's office and she wished to respect the man's request keep the research untouched until his return, given how many of his notes were wrapped up in hers.

 _Besides_ , she thought,  _I'm far too nervous to be serious about study_.

The army had yet to press into the Arbor Wilds, but thinking about the major offensive attack that was sure to happen within days made her sick to her stomach. She had read far too many histories of battles over the years to simply assume that the Inquisition would win the battle, no matter how much confidence she had in its strength. Research was far from her mind.

The worst part of her nerves was the thoughts that would pop into her mind without warning; visions of Varric with a knife in his back, Solas burning, Dorian skewered by a red Templar's crystalized arm, Cullen brought to his knees, Josephine with her throat slit, the Inquisitor crushed and defeated. Darkest of all were her visions of Cole in harm's way – she kept picturing the Pride demon's hands around his neck, only now it was Corypheus, who somehow was capable of binding Cole and forcing him to fight his friends. Cole's hand on the knife that wounded Varric, something that was surely Cole's worst nightmare as well as hers, would not leave her mind.

One night as she bedded down, Dagger and Cole's hat at her feet for comfort, a book in her hand in an attempt to sleep, the visions flashed through her mind one after the other, refusing banishment. Finally she slapped her book close and wiggled out of bed, pacing and racking her brain for anything that would calm her worries. Out of the corner of her eye she spied Dagger nibbling on the edge of the hat brim.

"Oh, no, you silly thing," she said, pulling the hat away. She turned it in her hand, eyeing it critically. "Goodness knows it needs no more damage. He really ought to have a newer hat." She smiled at Dagger, who blinked his black eyes at her. "But I suppose that's the nature of well-loved things – it becomes such a part of you that you can't imagine any replacement being better."

And with that observation came a flickering of an idea.

Quickly she shimmied on a tunic, flopped the hat on her head, shoved her feet into a pair of slippers, and ran for the kitchens. The scullery maid as still there, finishing up the last of her chores, and with a promise to clean up after herself, Sinead convinced the girl to fetch her a large bowl and fill it with water before leaving for the night.

Sinead pulled a stool up to the table and set the hat next to the bowl. She closed her eyes, took a number of deep breaths, trying to clear her head, then opened her eyes, touched the hat, and stared intently into the water.

Scrying never came easily to Sinead. It was a tricky art – one had to have a strong sense of focus and to somehow procure something of the person being searched. Blood was, of course, the easiest personal material to scry with. What were phylacteries but mini scrying tools, after all? But hair was a good substitute if one did not want to be morbid. Personal items were much more difficult to use – one had to treasure the object to the point of imbuing it with their essence.

Eluard had shown her how to scry, both with and without blood magic. It wasn't as near impossible as being lucid in the Fade without lyrium or blood, but it was much like running a long distance race – it took constant focus to keep the impression of a person or thing's location in her mind. Blood made it much easier, and no path was hidden from her, but even with blood it took effort. She encountered the same difficulty in the Circle. Some of her peers could easily scry for things and people, going so far as to use scrying for lost objects. She was lucky to have a thin thread to lead her to her test objects and only ever managed mediocre scores on her exams.

Still, it was worth the struggle now if she could get a read on Cole's location – and his physical state. A dead man could be scryed, but both Eluard and her Circle masters said it was like looking at a rabbit and discovering that it was made of carved wood. Strange that such different teachers would use the same analogy, now that she thought about it.

For a moment, she saw nothing. The water was clear, showing the bottom of the wooden bowl. Then, slowly, thin, blue-green lines appeared around her, old traces of Cole's presence in the kitchen. Many were nearly nonexistent, wisps in the air. One was solid, however, a sign that Cole had been in the kitchen recently.

She sank deeper into the scrying spell, staring into the water. A quarter hour passed. Finally, at an achingly sluggish pace, images faded in and out of her mind. Moments of time and place that Cole currently inhabited. It was blurry, a smudge in her head, but it was there. She released the scry and smiled. She did not need to know where he was, only that he was alive. And she felt no sense of serious danger. She had a new project – if she had time to spare, she would use it to practice scrying.

* * *

She had a bowl of water set up at her work table, explaining to her staff what she was attempting. It was enthusiastically approved of.

"Maybe we'll get news faster through you than through the little notes that come from the rookery," Sister Guerrin muttered.

It took a week for the army to reach the Arbor Wilds. At least, that was the impression Sinead got from her scrying. She double-checked in the rookery, and her impression confirmed. She was getting marginally better at scrying by staring at the bowl many hours a day. She had to break up the time, however, given that she got a raging headache if she scryed for longer than a half an hour at a time.

There were a few days where Cole moved little – perhaps setting up camp? The blurs were clearer, but she had yet to get an image in her mind that wasn't mostly splotches of color and weak emotions.

Then one day, it was extreme movement. The blurs were intensely colored, the feelings stronger.

"The battle," Sinead whispered.

She watched for as long as she could without risking a migraine, then pushed away, waited an hour, and popped back into the scry. Now it was calmer – there was less movement, but a sense of foreboding clung to the images that worried her. Again she watched, growing more and more worried as the foreboding grew. Whatever Cole was experiencing was unpleasant.

There was more movement – another battle? And then she had to push away again. She paced around the library, agitated.

"What did you see?" Marcel asked hesitantly.

"I don't know. There was certainly something not good going on," she replied. "I think they made it to the temple. Cole says he doesn't like temples, and the whole feeling was like being somewhere unpleasant."

"But that's good news," Guerrin said cheerfully. "That means they got through Corypheus's army."

"Perhaps."

She waited impatiently for another hour, then set up the scry again.

And found nothing.

She pulled out, confused, and tried again. Still nothing. It wasn't a lack of a thread – there was a thread. And it certainly wasn't like looking at a wooden rabbit. It was like Cole's thread had gone through a brick wall that she could not pass. No images came to mind.

She pulled out of the scry, rubbing her head.

"I must be tired," she muttered, and she pushed away the bowl, determined to give herself a small rest.

But when she tried again that evening, there was still nothing. The same brick wall, the same lack of impression. Her worry increased. This was not normal. She thought perhaps she needed a night of sleep and tried again the next morning as soon as she arrived in the library, but it was no use. It was as if Cole had walked off the face of Thedas. Out of frustration she pushed the bowl away, causing the water to slosh over the rim and forcing her to move quickly to save her papers.

Sister Guerrin popped her head into the alcove. "Still no luck?"

"It's entirely impossible," Sinead snapped as she gathered papers. "And I have no one to ask for help as the rest of the mages are off fighting a Maker-blessed war."

The sister moved to help Sinead clean up her mess. "You say it's as if Cole simply isn't here?"

"Yes. It's not that I can't scry for him, it's that he's simply  _gone_."

"Do you think he may be in the Fade? The Inquisitor and her party were there physically before. Would it seem as if he disappeared into thin air if that were the case?"

Sinead knocked her forehead with the back of her hand. "Sister, you are brilliant. I can't say for sure until it's confirmed, but what I'm encountering may indeed be the result of Cole being in the Fade. What a relief." She frowned. "Wait, no, not a relief. The last time they went into the Fade it seemed like mere moments to those in reality while the Inquisitor said it felt like hours. But it's been a  _full day_. What could be holding them there?"

"Is there any way to scry into the Fade?"

"None that's approved of," Sinead muttered.

"That is indeed troublesome." Guerrin patted her on the shoulder. "I'm sure if something happened, we'll learn of it soon."

The sister's words turned out to be prophetic – in the afternoon the rookery sent word that the battle in the Arbor Wilds was won. Marcel waved the note around, drawing the apprentices around him.

"Corypheus's forces have been routed," he said excitedly. "Units are being left in the Wilds to root out any stragglers among the red Templars. It says here that the advisors are riding post-haste back to Skyhold to plan the final confrontation with Corypheus. The Inquisitor and her party remain at the elven Temple searching for any important elven artifacts it may hold."

"See, there you are," the sister said cheerfully, clapping Sinead on the back as the apprentices whooped. "Nothing at all to worry about. Try your scry again, and I bet you'll find your young lad."

"He's not  _my_  young lad," Sinead retorted, but she scurried back to her work table, grinning from ear to ear, and set up the scry.

But she had the same results as before – a thread that led to a brick wall. She pulled out, eyes wide.

"Any luck this time?"

Sinead blinked and met the sister's smile with her own. "Indeed there he is again. How about that."

"There you are, my lass. Sometimes life gives us a taste of happiness." Guerrin winked at her. "Now off to the Herald's Rest for all of us to celebrate. I doubt any will be doing work today!"

Sinead allowed herself to be led to the tavern by the librarians, her face a mask of smiles as they joined the crowd of Skyhold staff. But her head churned with anxiety. If Cole was still missing from the scry, and if the advisors felt it necessary to rush back to Skyhold before the army while sending word of the Inquisitor's so-called treasure hunt, it was likely the Inquisitor was missing as well.

* * *

It took three days for Cullen, Josephine and Leliana to return from the Arbor Wilds. Every one of those days Sinead scryed for Cole but had no results.

She knew she could use blood to find him. It was a simple solution – bring a bucket of water to her room, make a quick nick out of sight, and see where he turned up. But finding Cole would not prove that the Inquisitor was still alive and safe by his side. Not only that, if she found Cole she could not keep that information to herself. It would be completely unethical to allow the advisors to think the Inquisitor – and perhaps the Inquisition – was dead if she could offer them even a glimmer of hope.

But to tell the advisors that she knew where Cole was would bring on immediate suspicion. Leliana was sure to have excellent scryers on her team, but even the best scryers could not find something in the Fade without assist from either a bounty's worth of lyrium, or blood, and she certainly did not have the former. Still, she could help – and what was the point of having power and knowing how to use it without using it when it's necessary?

She mulled over these thoughts for days, hiding her concern from her staff and Dagna, keeping her conversation light. At night she would scry for Cole, hoping that he'd return to reality and the answer would not have to be broached.

Because she knew the answer. She knew it the moment she realized that the advisors lied about the Inquisitor's whereabouts.

She thought of Eluard's old warning to keep her skills hidden, to never let any know what she was capable of. But she had disregarded the warning long ago with Ser Fenton, then with countless people she healed over the years, and finally with Cole and Varric and Solas and newly Lady Morrigan. It was a farce to keep her abilities from the very heads of the Inquisition when they may need her blood more than they ever needed her books or research.

The day the advisors arrived, they immediately sequestered themselves in the war room and sent word that they were not to be disturbed. That was enough confirmation for Sinead that indeed wherever Cole might be, the Inquisitor was there as well.

Sinead made a decision. It was time to stop hiding.

* * *

She could hear them arguing through the door – Cullen's brash baritone rising over Leliana's calm patter and Josphine's clipped tones. Hortensia hovered nearby, having attempted to shoo Sinead away unsuccessfully. She had yet to gather enough courage to knock – her heart was doing somersaults.

 _This could mean banishment_ , she thought.  _This could mean_  death.

Something crashed inside the war room, and she jumped.

"You see, they're very busy," Hortensia hissed. "I'm sure whatever it is can wait."

"It really can't," she said, bolstering herself. She pounded on the door.

The voices went quiet. The door creaked open, revealing Josephine.

"Lady Archivist?" Josephine was surprised. She glanced at Hortensia.

Hortensia curtsied, flustered. "I'm sorry my lady, she insisted –"

"I have to talk to you." Sinead pushed past Josephine and closed the door behind her. "It can't wait."

The war room was in disarray, pewter pieces littering the floor. Cullen was staring moodily out the window while Leliana leaned against the wall and massaged her temples. Sinead hesitated a moment, unsure of how to begin.

"I'm sorry, but you did not come at a good time," Josephine said quietly. "If you would please –"

"I know how to find the Inquisitor," Sinead blurted.

Leliana looked up, and Cullen turned from the window. All three of the Inquisitor's advisors stared at her.

"I know she's lost," Sinead continued, gaining momentum. "I've been scrying for Cole regularly, and I know he was in her party. He went missing almost a week ago. I assume that means she's missing, too?"

There was silence for a moment. The advisors shared a look.

"She never returned to camp," Cullen said finally. "We had the Temple searched top to bottom, and found nothing. There was evidence of battle, but not a single living soul. And no sign of our own, either, dead or alive."

"My scryers cannot find her," Leliana said, folding her hands behind her back. "And I have some of the very best in Thedas."

"Of course, I'm sure you do." Sinead licked her lips. "And I'm sure your scryers had everything at their disposal, Lady Nightingale," Sinead continued, holding up her hand before Leliana could speak. "But – well, I was just wondering if – if any of the scryers thought to use blood?"

Leliana tilted her head. "You mean blood magic? How odd that you bring it up." She gave Sinead a small, knowing smile. "I generally don't allow the practice, Lady Archivist, and I doubt my scryers are familiar enough with it to use it safely."

 _Ah, that smile. Yet another who always knew_ , Sinead grumbled to herself.

"Did you put her up to coming here?" Cullen crossed his arms and glared at Leliana. "And so this mad idea of yours grows even more absurd. Sinead may be educated, but flipping through a few books and learning an incantation or two does not make one a blood mage. I'll not have the Lady Archivist put at risk for your scheme, Leliana."

"You…were discussing scrying using blood magic?" Sinead said, surprised.

"Indeed we were." Josephine looked from Cullen to Leliana and shook her head. "I am reluctant, but if it's the only way to find the Inquisitor…"

"It can't be," Cullen snapped. "If we start conjuring demons, are we any better than the forces we fight?"

"I doubt demons will have to be involved," Leliana said mildly. She nodded at Sinead. "What do you think my lady?"

"No, demons aren't necessary. And my offer is not…from a place of inexperience." She took a deep breath before continuing. "I am a blood mage. And I know that if I had something of the Inquisitor's, I could determine where she may be."

Josephine and Cullen were stunned. Leliana's smile simply widened.

"You're a – but you can't be." Cullen's brow darkened. "This is ridiculous. I've known you since you were in pigtails. In all my time in Kirkwall, never once were you suspected of blood magic, not even during the worst times."

"No one suspected me in the Circle because I didn't use my power during my first years there," she shot back, surprised to be annoyed at Cullen's disbelief. "I'm not a damned fool. But I assure you, I've been practicing blood magic since I was nine years old. My first master was very thorough in his teachings, and blood was an essential part of my lessons."

"If you stopped practicing when you reached the Circle, how can you be sure you can still scry with blood?" Josephine asked, shock replaced by practical interest.

"You can't seriously be considering this option," Cullen snapped.

"I actually practice regularly. I picked up the practice again a number of years ago," Sinead said, ignoring Cullen's outburst.

"You didn't," Cullen huffed.

"I did. In Kirkwall. In  _Kirkwall_ ," she repeated as Cullen shook his head, "to save Knight-Commander Fenton's life after an accident with a cursed object."

" _Fenton_  knew? Fen –" Cullen clenched his hands. "Unbelievable. Do you realize what you're confessing? That this means you may have to leave the Inquisition? Or worse?"

"Excuse me, Commander, but the Lady Archivist is under my supervision," Josephine said sternly. "I'll thank you not to banish my underlings."

"And I doubt the Inquisitor would approve, either." Leliana crossed her arms. "She knows of the Lady Archivist's powers."

Yet again Cullen and Josephine shared a shocked look, and Sinead joined them.

"The Inquisitor knows," she said faintly.

"Of course. I have my people watch every new member of the Inquisition for a time, just to be sure of them. One witnessed you use blood to heal a man. You can imagine how long I had you watched after that little discovery."

Cullen was incensed. "How could you keep something like that secret?"

"It is my job to keep secrets. And I thought at first she was a spy – from Tevinter, perhaps – and wanted to see what she was after. Imagine my surprise when I dug deeper into her life and found that she was simply a young woman with an interesting skill. One that she never used for ill. When I told the Inquisitor of my findings, she decided it was for the best to keep things quiet and let the lady be – she said we have a benevolent blood mage working for us, and in time that could be beneficial."

"Such as this very moment." Josephine tapped her chin. She gave Sinead a critical look. "You truly don't use your power for more…unsavory purposes?"

"Never, my lady," Sinead said quickly. "And I only use the blood if other options are tapped out. It's an exhausting practice."

"She tells the truth." Leliana moved around the table and placed a hand on Sinead's shoulder. "We watched her for months. She saved many lives with her power – draining her own life to do so."

"I'm not hearing this. I can't be." Cullen jabbed a finger at Sinead. "Do you have any idea how many people will instantly turn against the Inquisition for harboring maleficarum?"

Sinead's anger flared. "I'm not a maleficar."

Cullen paced over to her, stepping in front of Leliana and looming as he did over a particularly mouthy soldier. "What is the definition of a maleficar, Sinead? Someone who practices the forbidden arts. Blood magic is at the top of the list."

"'Foul and corrupt are they who have taken his gift and turned it against his children.' That is the definition of maleficar," Sinead snapped. "I never use the power against the innocent, never in malice!"

"Never in malice?" Cullen roared. "I watched good men and women die because blood mages decided life in the Circle was not good enough for them – Templars and mages cut down by abominations, my thoughts flooded with sick fantasies. And you dare come before us and tell us nonchalantly that you're a blood mage without  _malice_?"

"I'd never do anything so grotesque." Sinead's voice rose as her anger peaked. "You say you've known me since I was a girl, but accuse me of being on the same level as those monsters because I use the same skills?" She pushed on the pommel of his sword. "You have a great sword like Meredith had. Shall I accuse you of being tempted by red lyrium and going mad with power? Are you going to order the death of children?"

"That is not even comparable to -"

"Oh, is it not?" She was shouting now, something she had not done since she was a girl rowing against her mother. "How do you think I stopped the Templars from killing those children, Commander? Twelve men,  _your_  men, armed with steel and lyrium against a gaggle of apprentices! Some no older than six!" Cullen looked as if he had been slapped. Sinead continued, prodding him in the chest. "How do you think I saved the lives of the people slaughtered on the street that day? Or the people scorched by the Breach at the Temple of Sacred Ashes? Think of me however you wish, but I am no malificar!"

She glowered at him, face red, teeth clenched. Cullen matched her glower with his own, one that held a significant amount of pain and surprise and disappointment.

"This is getting us nowhere," Josephine said quietly. "The fact is, the Inquisitor already made the decision to retain Sinead, and Sinead, not knowing that the Inquisitor was aware of her skills, came forward at great personal risk to help us. I see no reason to deny her offer."

"Agreed. What do you need to complete the ritual?" Leliana asked.

"A bowl of water and something of the Inquisitor's," Sinead replied quickly.

Cullen threw up his hands. "So we are going ahead with this madness?"

"Commander, I respect your concerns. But the Inquisitor is lost and Corypheus is still at large. Do you have a better solution to suggest?" Josephine snapped. Cullen sputtered a bit. "As I thought." She opened the door and told Hortensia to bring a bowl of water.

"As for something of the Inquisitor's, I assume a lock of her hair will do?" Leliana retrieved a small vial from her belt pouch and handed it to Sinead.

Sinead gave the woman a look. "You were planning on asking me to scry with blood, weren't you?"

Leliana smiled a secret smile. "As soon as I convinced these two that it was the most sensible action we could take."

Cullen paced back and forth, working his hands. "You are condoning this insanity out of ignorance. Neither of you have seen the effects of blood magic. She may contort into an abomination at any moment, may be forced to take our minds." He stopped and drew his sword, a pained expression in his eyes. Sinead went pale, her heart dropping to her stomach. Josephine stepped back, shocked, while Leliana flicked her daggers from her belt and went into a fighting stance. Cullen ignored the reactions of the women, staring down Sinead. He flipped his sword point down and placed his free hand on the pommel. "Sinead, I swear to you, I will cut you down if the demons take you."

Sinead's breath caught in her throat. She stepped carefully to Cullen and placed her hand over his. He flinched slightly, but did not move away. "Thank you, Commander. I promise you, it won't come to that. But if it does, I'd gladly fall to your sword."

He shook his head once, sadness crossing his features. "I thought you were one of the good ones. You have no idea how long it took me to trust –" He closed his eyes and stepped away, letting her hand slip from his.

"I assure you, Commander, she is still one of the good ones," Leliana said as she resheathed her daggers. "Wait and see."

Sinead raised her brows at the Nightingale, surprised at such a confident defense from someone she'd barely spoken to in all her time in the Inquisition. It made her wonder what Leliana knew about everyone who had joined the Inquisitor's cause. Then she looked down at the floor with a blush.

"I don't know if I'd go that far," she muttered.

Hortensia returned with the bowl of water. Josephine set it on the war table, then backed away to the edge of the room.

"You are sure that this is safe?" she asked, giving Sinead a stern look.

"When is magic ever safe?" Sinead asked, removing the lock of hair from the vial and setting it next to the bowl. Cullen moved behind her, raising his sword. She gave him a nod, then reached out her hand and slid it over the blade, cutting her hand. She pulled at the power, let it mingle with her mana, touched the lock of hair, and looked into the bowl.

As always with the blood, the spell came to her much easier. Red lines crisscrossed the air around her – patterns of the Inquisitor's movement in the war room. She could tell the older traces from the newer with barely a glance. Her gaze fixated on the bowl, she followed a line that traveled far from Skyhold, one leading to the same mental equivalent of a brick wall that had plagued her scrying for days. But the wall was now malleable, like a thick pudding. She pushed through, and images began flickering in her mind – not the blurred splotches of her previous scrys, but bold, defined pictures and emotions. There was determination, hints of fear, a bit of tiredness, and a definite sensation that screamed "flee!"

What confused her was how gray everything was – wherever the Inquisitor was, it was lifeless, muted, silent, thin. She furrowed her brow.

"What do you see?" Josephine asked. "Is she in the Fade again?"

"No." Sinead cocked her head. "The Fade is – well it's  _big_. And colorful. And it has a very specific feel about it that is unmistakable. This is something else. It's like someone took the Fade and drained it of its Fadiness." She pushed deeper into the scry. "It's so very odd. Like it's a crack in perception, somewhere between…"

An idea flashed. She smiled. "So the Temple of Mythal had an eluvian after all."

Leliana leaned in next to her. "What does that mean?"

"I think she's gone within one of the eluvian – the mirrors that the ancient elves used to travel from place to place." The excitement in Sinead's voice grew as she spoke. "The old lore mentions a path, which most scholars consider to be a metaphor. But perhaps it actually is a path, somewhere between here and the Fade. Fascinating!"

"Yes, fascinating," Leliana said patiently. "Is the Inquisitor stuck in this world between?"

Sinead turned the images over in her mind. "No. She's moving. To her perception she's moving very fast – running. But the images I have barely shift from one to the other. Ah." She pulled out of the scry and blinked. "The Fade is an odd place. Time passes differently there than here – there are stories of mages who nearly die of dehydration after being asleep for days while feeling like mere hours passed in the Fade. I believe time is moving much more slowly for the Inquisitor's party than it is for us. But she is moving."

She healed her cut. Cullen slumped and resheathed his sword, muttering "thank the Maker."

"The important thing is she is alive," Sinead continued. "And she's coming. I would bet every tome in the Skyhold library that she's heading for Lady Morrigan's eluvian."

"That is a great relief," Josephine sighed. "The Inquisition still stands, then. And I must say I was expecting something more…explosive from blood magic. Bargaining with demons or somesuch. But aside from the red glowing around the eyes, it was quite banal."

"'Quite banal.' Maker preserve me," Cullen muttered furiously.

Sinead glanced at him. "The Commander isn't wrong about the dangers of blood magic," she said hesitantly. "Demons are attracted to the power – even I can still hear them, if I listen closely. The stupid ones promise me kingdoms and riches. The smart ones promise safety for the people I care about. But I've been using the skill for so long that it's all background noise to me now. The first thing I learned from my master was that every demon wants a way out of the Fade, and no promise is worth giving it to them. Keep a strong mind, and a strong heart."

Cullen made a disgusted noise. "You've been luring demons with blood magic since you were nine? What sadistic bastard of a master would expose a child to that sort of temptation?"

"He wasn't –" Sinead stopped and frowned. The blackness loomed, threatening to silence her if she spoke any more about Eluard. She thought for a moment before speaking again. "As a child I didn't even think about the danger – it was all part of the lesson. I was safe, and happy, and never told that I was at serious risk, only that I should be wary, that a demon's gifts were never worth their price. Now, I do wonder…I think it was his version of the Harrowing. If I could not avoid temptation at the highest level, using a power that made them sniff me out, then I would never be safe. Perhaps he was also resolved to 'cut me down' if I didn't pass his test."

"Horrific," Cullen spat.

"Or practical," Leliana said pragmatically. "As we have learned, the Chantry's attempts at keeping mages safe from themselves are no less horrific. The world is changing, Cullen. It may be time to set aside our old assumptions about what is right and holy in the Maker's eyes."

There was a pause in the conversation. Cullen seethed next to Sinead, gripping the hilt of his sword as if he wished to lash out at everything he considered foolish and dangerous and hateful. With a sinking stomach, Sinead realized one of those things may now be her.

Josephine cleared her throat. "Lady Archivist, we will need you to scry regularly until the Inquisitor is safe at Skyhold."

"Of course," Sinead said quietly.

"Beyond that, we must have a serious discussion about other duties you may be suited for," Josephine continued. "We will have to keep up the façade of your being the Lady Archivist, of course –"

"But that's what I am," Sinead cut in, alarmed. "I'm a librarian. If the Inquisition needs my help, of course I'm willing, but –"

Josephine held up a hand. "You've shared a skill with us that no one else in our organization is likely to share – Cullen and Cassandra's presence alone is probably enough to scare off any other blood mage who follows similar rules to yours. Your talents would be wasted in the library."

"The abilities you have for spying alone makes your power quite valuable," Leliana said with a nod.

"That's not quite what I – " Josephine began, but Leliana continued talking, ignoring her.

"Not to mention what you could do on a covert mission," Leliana continued. "Who would suspect the little one-armed librarian? And I wonder at the information we could gather from prisoners with blood magic," Leliana pondered. "And whose mind could be nudged in our direction. Think of all the dissident nobles who would suddenly consider the Inquisition a fine organization."

Sinead's heart pounded. She stepped back from the table, her breath shallow. "I could never – I'm not – I will not use it to hurt someone, even an enemy, unless I'm attacked or –"

Leliana arched a brow. "You would not delve into the mind of a man who knows of plans that would hurt innocents and pull answers from his lips? Is that not kinder than the more…distasteful methods I must use?"

"No." The panic rose, and her chest clenched. "I – even to help, I – " She steadied herself and glared at Leliana. "Absolutely not. And I will gladly march away from the Inquisition if I'm ever told to do such a thing."

"You've proven your point, Leliana," Cullen said wearily. He placed a hand gently on Sinead's shoulder. She looked up at him – all of his anger had drained away and was replaced by exhaustion.

"I told you so," Leliana said, amused. "And leave her be, Josie. We have more than enough 'resources' to deal with all but the oddest of situations. When those situations arise, we can discuss Sinead's involvement then."

"Very well," Josephine conceded. She took up her clip board and nodded to Cullen and Leliana. "We have found a solution to our immediate problem, and thus I consider this meeting adjourned. Sinead, please see me at the end of the day for another scrying."

With that, Josephine left the war room.

Leliana followed her, giving Sinead a final smile before opening the door and slipping out. "Thank you, Lady Archivist. You have been most helpful."

Cullen dropped his hand from Sinead's shoulder, walked defeatedly to the window and leaned against the frame with a sigh.

"I feel that every certainty I've had has been torn to shreds over the last few years," he said quietly. "The Templar order was corrupt, the Chantry faltering, the mages not without legitimate complaints. Spirits can be kindly young men, and now blood magic can be used without harm by a young woman with no ill will in her heart. The world I thought I knew was a farce."

"Commander, I –" Sinead stopped, unsure of what to say.

Cullen looked at her then, a look that reminded her of Cole's, his sad hazel eyes seeming to stare through her. "I once told you why I thought of you when the Inquisition was formed. And I was honest with my answer. I did think you capable of the tasks you'd be given in the Inquisition, and so you have been." He stopped, as if deliberating how to put his next words. "When I was young, I thought of mages as flighty prisoners, almost childlike, deserving of leniency and pity. Then I thought of them as miserable creatures at the mercy of demons. I even considered if Tranquility was the only way to keep both the mage and the common people safe. It took a long time for me to realize that this was no more correct than my early naivety."

He gave her a small smile. "You were one of those who helped me see how wrong I was. When you stepped forward the day the Qunari attacked, raising your new staff and offering your help, it was a small revelation. A crack in the wall. It reminded me of my sis – well, of other strong young women I've known." He gave her worried look and pressed his hand against his chest. "Please, Sinead, you must give up the practice. You've been in my care for over ten years, and I know you are genuine when you say you wish no one harm. But I've seen the horrors malificarum can inflict, what a determined demon can twist someone into. I'll never believe blood magic to be safe, even in the hands of the benevolent."

Sinead bowed her head. It hurt to know Cullen was concerned for her. "It is who I am, Commander."

"And if the worst happens? If a demon should take you, or your mind is lost to promises that are too good to reject?"

"Then I know you'll be there with your word ready if the worst happens," Sinead said firmly. "And I can ask for no one better to put me out of my misery."

"So you will not give it up?"

She raised her chin. "Not if I can use it to help."

He closed his eyes, his brows knitting together. "Then I fear for you."

He turned away and did not speak to her again. Sinead lowered her head and made her way to the door.

"I'm sorry Commander," she whispered as she slipped from the war room.


	28. Betrayal

The sun fell over Sinead's eyes, gradually pulling her from sleep. She yawned and stretched, not quite ready to wake – it had been three days since she first scryed for the Inquisitor, and Josephine and Leliana asked her to scry every day after, multiple times a day. Such a use of power left her spent. She tried not to show her exhaustion, given the importance of determining the safety of the Inquisitor. However, Cullen, who insisted on watching over her use of blood magic with sword at ready, noticed her growing fatigue the night before.

"I know that look," he said firmly over her protests. "You wouldn't be the first mage I've attended who passed out in the middle of a spell. The last thing we need is blood magic going awry."

She was promptly sent to her quarters, and though she feebly objected, she fell into bed without removing her clothes or arm sling and was asleep before she hit the pillow.

She yawned again and wiggled her feet, noticing a lack of nug weight at the end of her bed.

"Dagger?"

She cracked an eye, then opened them both wide and sat up. Dagger was sitting on Cole's lap, who in turn was sitting on the floor reading one of the many books from her pile on her night stand. Actually  _reading_ , turning pages and pondering over the words and everything. The sight was so astounding to her that it overrode her glee at his presence in her room.

"Since when do you read?" she blurted. "I mean – you're back!"

"I am." He looked up from the book. "And if I want to know the stories others aren't reading, I have to read them for myself. You don't read them to me anymore."

"Well, if it's gotten you to read, I don't wonder if I made the right decision." Though a part of her felt she should not encourage this intimate visit, that she should send Cole away, she could not stop smiling. "I am so glad you're safe at home. When did you return?"

"When Satina was high." He closed the book and moved Dagger from his lap. Dagger gave a grumpy snort and waddled to his cushion by the fire. "A guard was waiting for us when we came through the eluvian. He fetched Leliana, then everyone talked a long time, and then everyone went to sleep. I came here to wait for you to wake." As he spoke he began wiggling her hairpins free from the weave of his belt. "I wanted to return these. I kept them safe for you."

She held up her hand. "Is Corypheus dead?"

He paused. "Yes. And no." She furrowed her brow, confused, and he continued. "When he's struck down, he seizes a blighted body, bending, twisting, tearing through. He becomes  _through_  them."

"Maker." She grimaced, feeling ill. "So that's why the Grey Wardens had no luck killing him." She shook her head. "Well, then, I cannot have my pins back. So long as Corypheus lives, you'll be called to fight against him. And how will I know you'll stay safe unless I know you'll do your best to bring them back to me? Keep them for now."

He dropped his hands from his belt reluctantly. "I suppose that means you must keep my hat," he said longingly.

She laughed. "You can take your hat back if you miss it so."

"No, it wouldn't be…right."

"Very well, then." She picked up the hat from where she kept it at the end of her bed and plopped it on her head, then lowered the brim over her eyes. "I rather like it. It makes me feel mysterious. Though I admit I don't wear it quite as well as you do."

He gave her a small smile. Then he cocked his head. "You told Josephine and Cullen."

"What? Oh." She pushed up the brim. "Yes. I felt I had to."

"Cullen is upset. He thinks he'll have to kill you someday."

"He won't."

"No, he won't."

She narrowed her eyes. "Did you say that because you're thinking you'd kill me first if ever I became an abomination?"

"Yes."

"Honestly." She rolled her eyes. "By the way,  _you_  never told me about Leliana and her spies."

"If I told you she knew, all you'd do is worry," he said with a shrug. "It wouldn't have helped."

"Ah. Like it wouldn't have helped if you told the truth about Thom Rainier?"

"Yes, exactly," he said, pleased that she understood. "Everyone would have been angry, when all he wanted to do is be a better man. He was helping."

"And yet, you share my admiration for beautiful chest hair to said chest hair's owner," she said archly.

"Because I was trying –"

" – to help, I know," she cut in. "Sometimes I am in awe about the information you consider helpful versus what you do not."

"Sometimes the knowledge people think would be helpful isn't at all."

"Touché."

A silence fell between them, comfortable and familiar. They had not been together, alone, without true purpose, for months, yet Sinead felt no need to force conversation, and felt no awkwardness in his presence. As always, she felt she could simply  _be_  with him. It made her heart ache, and guilt filled her chest.  _Will I never gain control of my confounded infatuation_?

She cleared her throat and smoothed her tunic. "I suppose I should prepare for the day," she said lightly.

He blinked at her, not getting her hint.

"I'm going to have to take off my clothes," she said bluntly. "Which means you should go."

"Oh. Okay." He stood and handed her the book. He hesitated for a moment at her door. "Sinead…will you come read to me again?"

Her heart flipped. "I…"  _Yes_ , she thought.  _I miss your company, I miss your thoughtful conversation, I miss your eyes and your graceful movements and your oddly dense questions_. "I'm not sure," she said glumly. "I'm not sure if I'm ready."

He gave her an exasperated look. "You think it's helping, but it's not at all." He left then, leaving her to ponder fretfully on his words.

* * *

For the next week, the mood at Skyhold was tense. The Arbor Wilds had been cleared of the remaining Red Templars, the Inquisitor continued to stabilize the conditions of Southern Thedas, but there was an air of foreboding in the day to day running of the keep that none could deny. For one thing, Cullen had upped the guard on the barricades, and Josephine had given lists of goods to the acquisition officers – requests for barrels of grain and salted meats and onions and dried fruits. There were a few delegates who returned to the keep, but the nobility still kept away.

"They're preparing for a siege," Dagna explained one day at lunch. "Makes sense. If I were Corypheus, I'd take whatever forces I had left and throw them at Skyhold."

"But he can't have many supporters left. The Inquisitor flushed out the last of the Venatori in the Western Approach and the Hissing Wastes. And nearly every other place that the Tevinters and Red Templars infiltrated has been cleared. If I were he, I'd lay low for a few years. Gather my strength."

"Ha! A guy like Corypheus isn't the type to lay low," Dagna said. "Trust me – that creeper's gonna attack. It's just a matter of time."

Dagna's words proved prophetic.

On the ninth morning after the Inquisitor's return, Sinead was in the middle of an argument with Dorian.

"I told you, I have no desire to make this library into a Chantry archive," she said, exhasperated.

"Including a few more volumes from the Tevinter perspective of the Chantry would do nothing more than balance out the frankly obscene amount of Southern Thedas drivel occupying your shelf space," Dorian said irritably.

"That literature was a donation given freely, and I've been weeding out the worst of the lot. I told you this before." She held up a small box with the word 'suggestions' carved into the side. "This is the third time you've made the request."

"And apparently three times was not the charm. Eventually I hope the idea wriggles through that lusciously thick hair of yours and sticks in your head."

"Please don't make me regret starting the suggestion box," she pleaded.

He arched a slender brow. "So you didn't start it as a clever way to ask for my opinion without losing face to your underlings?"

"No, I – "

"Lady Archivist!" One of the apprentices skidded through the door leading to the battlements. "The Breach! You – it – everyone, come and see!" He ran off, back to the battlements.

There was only a brief pause before all the occupants of the library followed the apprentice outside. A bright green glow lit the eastern horizon – once again a great hole was rent in the sky. Gasps and groans rose from around Skyhold, the inhabitants of the keep stopping all activity to watch this fresh assault on the heavens.

"Maker preserve us, that Tevinter madman won't stop 'til he's undone us all," Sister Guerrin cried.

Sinead felt no fear as she stared down this new breach – instead she felt intense anger. She was tired of watching her friends go off to war, tired of Corypheus's threat, tired of fear.

"It's in the direction of Haven." She tsked. "Would he really be so proud as to go back where it all began?"

"Don't underestimate the arrogance of Tevinter madmen," Dorian said grimly.

One of Leliana's runners popped out of the library door. "Master Pavus, the Inquisitor is requesting you," she said, huffing a bit.

"Very well. Lady Archivist, we'll continue our discussion about your ill-advised suggestion box later." Dorian gave her a little bow and jogged off with the runner.

Meanwhile, a unit of scouts rushed out the keep's entrance, their horses galloping at full speed, messenger ravens flying overhead. A half hour after, the Inquisitor and her inner circle of companions followed, mounts lightly packed. Sinead gripped the stone wall of the barricade as she watched them go, all of them intent on the journey ahead.

"The library is officially closed," she said quietly, pushing away from the wall. "Spend the time as you wish. I think I'll be visiting the Chantry chapel."

"I never took you as an Andrastian," Guerrin said, surprised.

"I'm not sure if I am," Sinead retorted as she walked toward the library. "But the woman poked her nose in all this business and let her name be flaunted around with that Herald of Andraste nonsense. It's only fair that she follow through at the end."

* * *

No word came from the Inquisitor's party for the rest of that day or night. The next day dawned with the sky still split. The residents of Skyhold were listless as they waited for news – chores went undone, the forges were cool, the only food offered by the cook was cold mutton and bread. Josephine allowed these lapses, and a message from her passed around the staff asking for prayers in lieu of service.

Sinead gave the librarians a similar message, but all of them, Sinead, Marcel, Sister Guerrin, Mathilde and the apprentices, gathered in the library anyway. There seemed to be nowhere else in Skyhold more comforting to the lot of them. At first they spoke in low voices, speculating how the fight with Corypheus was going, stopping and straining their ears for news whenever a raven cawed in the rookery.

However, tension soon grew wearisome. Near the end of the day Marcel fetched a few bottles of wine from the cellar, the sister brought out a pack of cards, and soon conversation switched to their various research projects as they played Diamondback and Wicked Grace.

"I still can't believe Tyrdda Bright Axe's 'axe' was actually a staff," Guerrin grumbled. "Felt like a damned fool when we pulled it from its chest."

"A translation mistake that anyone could make," Marcel soothed.

"I'm not  _anyone_. It was a novice error – the context clues in the poetry should have been enough to guess at the most obvious answer. A crystal axe, can you imagine?" Guerrin swooped a pointed finger at the apprentices. "Keep that in mind, whelps. Don't let your heads get so big that you don't double-check your work. Your turn to throw down a card, Lady Archivist."

Sinead peaked at her hand, fanned out face down in front of her, doing her best to keep the others from seeing her cards.

"My lady, if you'd let me hold them for you…" Mathilde murmured.

"I am fine, thank you," Sinead said patiently, still pondering over her cards.

"Won't help her anyway, girl," Guerrin sniffed. "I've not met a more guileless player. No offense, my lady."

"It speaks to La Lotus's character," Marcel said stoutly. "Her face can't hide her joy, her eyes not her disappointment, her –"

" _Thank_  you, Marcel," Sinead cut in. She gave a Look to the giggling apprentices, who all suddenly had something in their throats they had to clear. She threw down a card that Marcel immediately trumped.

"And what of your research, my lady?" Guerrin asked as she rearranged her cards, picking up the thread of conversation. "You were knee-deep about a month ago, weren't you?"

"Yes, I was following an interesting trail. Something about elven orbs, and Shartan, and a connection between Mythal and the Dread Wolf. Very intriguing stuff." She shrugged. "I'll pick it up again soon. My notes and references are all in Master Solas's office, and I assured him that I'd leave the references be for now."

The sister looked up from her cards with raised brows. "Why would you agree to that?"

"Because…" Sinead paused, thinking. She continued slowly. "Because he didn't want me to mix up his notes with mine and run off with part of his research. That  _does_  sound silly, doesn't it?"

"It's absolutely ridiculous," Guerrin huffed. "Are you saying he didn't want you to touch any book you were referencing? Any at all? For fear that the  _Head Archivist_  wouldn't be careful with his notes? What nonsense."

"He was working on something important," one of the apprentices said hesitantly. "He was up here many times asking for resources on the elves, and never returned the books. I think he has nearly our whole collection about Arlathan at this point. He said it was okay – that he was storing them in his office for now."

"What do you mean he never returned the books," Marcel said sharply. The only time his tone became sharp was when his beloved books were misused and misplaced. "I give the youth responsibility over check outs and returns, thinking you are ready, and this is what happens? We have a strict policy, messeres. You cannot let a single man run off with an entire collection of anything!"

Sinead was barely listening, her face pale as she thought. She knew, she  _knew_  that just one day before she was certain she should not enter Solas's office – that his research was of the utmost importance and could not be disturbed, no matter the reason. But at this moment, that surety was nonexistent – she felt no need to avoid his office, no fear of disrupting notes, no thought that his research was somehow more important than her own. That feeling was simply… _gone_.

She stood quickly, knocking the table with her thighs and sloshing the wine from the goblets. "He spelled his office."

"What?" The sister set down her cards. "What do you mean, my lady?"

"Solas put a big mental 'do not disturb' sign on his office, that's what I mean," she snapped. "I just realized it because I no longer feel the spell's effects. He's been keeping me out for weeks and I want to know why." She pointed at one of the apprentices. "Go search the roster. I want to know every book he's checked out and hasn't returned." The apprentice nodded nervously and ran off. "The rest of you follow me."

She marched toward the stairs, the archivists, apprentices and Mathilde close at her heels. She flicked her hand at a brazier as they entered the darkened office. Blue flames cast shadows over the empty desk. Stacks of books lined the circular wall.

Sister Guerrin whistled. "How in Andraste's flames did he manage to gather this many books without us noticing?"

"Magic," Sinead said promptly, walking to the desk and opening drawers, but the innards of the desk were equally empty. "In all my time here, I have never seen his desk like this," she muttered. "There's nothing here – not even a quill." She slammed a drawer closed. "Where are my bloody notes?"

"Are they perhaps with the books, my lady?" Marcel kneeled next to one of the piles.

"I had piles of notes. Mountains of notes.  _Reams_  of notes. Most of them loose. None of those books look as if they're holding folded parchment."

"Let's check them all and make sure." Marcel picked up a book and opened it, then blanched. "Le Créateur! It is mutilated!"

He turned the book around so the others could see – the innards of the book were stained black, as if someone had poured ink between the pages and pressed them closed. No text was legible. In an instant, the apprentices and the sister were on the books, opening them and tossing them aside.

"This one is all black, too!"

"This one as well."

"Maker's breath, what is this about?"

A ball of fury tightened in Sinead's chest. She whipped her hand around her head. A whirlwind swirled at the edges of the room. The librarians ducked as the books scattered from their stacks and landed open in a flutter of paper. The wind flicked through every tome, revealing nothing but blackened pages.

"I do forget sometimes that she's a mage," one apprentice whispered to another as the wind died down.

Silence filled the room as shock descended upon the academics. Sinead was numb with rage. She stared at the ruined books, using every ounce of her self-control to keep from lighting them all aflame. Instead she kicked at a now worthless tome, sending it flying against the wall.

"Will you be discussing this with Master Solas when he returns?" Mathilde said calmly, placing a hand on Sinead's shoulder.

"Unlikely." The sister snorted. "With that empty desk, I wonder if the elf hasn't gone and done a runner."

Sinead licked her dry lips. "We need to know the damage," she croaked. "Go through this mess, catalog what's been lost. Match it up with our own catalog. Marcel, I need to know which books are replaceable and how quickly they can be replaced. Sister, I need to know if any elven lore or history was checked out by someone other than Solas and miraculously escaped this destruction." She brushed a few strands of hair from her eyes. "I need to talk to Leliana."

She left her staff behind, grabbing a book and running up the stairs by twos to the rookery. Leliana was kneeling at her shrine, her lips moving quickly as she whispered one prayer after the other. Sinead dropped the book in front of her, startling her out of her reverie.

"Who is Solas?"

"Lady Archivist." Leliana picked up the book and eyed Sinead. "There are better ways to get my attention."

"You know everything about everyone," Sinead continued, ignoring Leliana's disapproval. "Who in the bloody Void is Solas?"

Leliana furrowed her brow and stood. "An apostate who wished to help the Inquisition – a man who managed to escape Templar notice and survive the wilds without Dalish connections. He has mysterious origins, but some could say the same about you, my lady."

"My origins aren't so mysterious that I'd inexplicably obliterate an entire collection of information about my people." Sinead took the book from Leliana and opened it, showing her the blackened pages. "This is the state of possibly every book on elven lore we have. Solas requested books on the subject for weeks. He spelled his office so that I would think it imprudent to enter it – only today has the spell worn off. And my notes of research on a few subjects within the lore are missing, I presume destroyed."

There was a brief moment, a second, in which Leliana appeared aghast. Then she regained her composer, taking the book and flipping through it. "We'll have to question him when he returns."

"Will he return?" Sinead glowered. "His desk is empty."

Leliana snapped into action. She called over one of her scouts. "I want word sent to Haven immediately – have eyes on Solas. If he leaves the location, follow him." The scout nodded and ran off as Leliana pointed at two more scouts. "Search Solas's chambers and come to the war room with anything you find. And you, tell the Commander he's needed in the war room, immediately. Tell him to run. Come along, Lady Archivist."

Leliana led her, double time, to Josephine's office. Josephine rose from her desk, mouth opened to speak, but Leliana put a finger to her lips, then crooked it for Josephine to follow. Josephine nodded and complied.

"Why the silence, Leliana?" Josephine asked with concern as she closed the door to the war room. "And why have you invited Sinead? Is the Inquisitor lost again?"

"Not at all. From everything my scouts send, the battle with Corypheus has begun and is going well. Morrigan's dragon form has been successful."

"Dragon form?" Sinead said, alarmed, her ruined books momentarily knocked from her head.

"We have another problem," Leliana continued, ignoring Sinead's surprise. She handed Josephine the book.

Josephine paged through it, confused. "I don't understand. What am I looking at?"

"An example of the possible state of every book on elven lore our library holds," Sinead said darkly, brought back to her current issue. "And Solas was the likely man behind the destruction."

Josephine blinked, surprised.

At that moment Cullen barreled through the door. "What is it? What's wrong?" He caught sight of Sinead. "Maker's grace, is the Inquisitor lost again?"

"No, but our elven lore is." Leliana took the book from Josephine and tossed it at Cullen.

Cullen opened the book, irritable. "You told me to run to the war room because of a stained library book?"

"It's the whole collection of information on the elves," Sinead said, her fury rising again. "Every page blacked out of existence. Not only that, I was researching the elven artifacts, the orbs, and found some odd connections. Now all of that research is missing, and Solas's desk is empty of his things."

"The Lady Archivist believes Solas ruined the Skyhold books," Josephine said.

"And that Solas will not return to Skyhold," Leliana added.

Cullen looked mystified. "But why?"

"That is the wrong question." Leliana took the book and placed it on the war table. "Who is Solas? What is in the lore that he does not want us to find?"

"It can't be good, whatever it is," Sinead said, clutching her sling with her hand. "The stuff I was reading was about old magic – the elven gods before they were locked away, the incredible power and endless lives of the Elvhen, the artifacts the ancient elves created to enhance that power. You read enough of the old stories about these spirits or gods or whatever the elven pantheon was, and you start to understand why the trickster Fen'Harel locked them all away. Some claimed to be benevolent, but none of them were  _good_."

"Perhaps he doesn't want you to find these connections because he's a zealot," Josephine said. "There are many among the Dalish who consider it a desecration for humans to hear their stories."

Leliana shook her head. "Solas is no Dalish elf, and he has no love of their faith in their lore. That much my people picked up from him. This smacks of covering one's tracks. Not to mention that a zealot is who tore a rift in the fade."

"Are you saying we could have been harboring a man with unknown, possibly dangerous motivations this whole time?" Cullen slammed a fist on the table. "Why are we the last to know of these things, Leliana? Renier, a blood mage, and now this?"

"Solas was an unknown when he came, and a brief background check turned up nothing unusual," Leliana replied calmly. "I admit I should have been more diligent, but at the time I was more concerned with the hole in the sky. But don't be so concerned, Cullen. I don't plan on losing track of Solas. My people will watch him."

"But – "

There was a knock at the door. Before being told to enter, a scout came through shaking a letter excitedly.

"It's done!" he cried. "Corypheus is defeated! The breach is sealed!"

The advisors and Sinead shared a look and rushed to the windows. The breach was gone, a thin blue streak of light the only mark of its former presence. Josephine pushed away from the window, smiling.

"We will table this discussion on Solas until after the Inquisitor returns," she said. "The world is safe, for now, and I must make preparations for a celebration." She hurried off to her office.

Cullen sighed and backed away from the window, shaking his head. "At least that's one danger over and done with," he muttered, stalking off.

There was a fight within Sinead between relief and wrath. "What's there to celebrate? It's not an end," she said finally, angry. "It's just a calm in the storm."

"All of life is a storm," Leliana said with a shrug. "It is a blessing to stay afloat."

"Wonderful. Excuse me, I have to help my staff sort through the wreckage Solas left behind." Sinead shook her head and stormed out of the war room. Halfway through the great hall, she had a thought and changed direction, running up the stairs to her quarters.

She had not opened her stolen copy of  _Fifteen Dreams of Elvhenan_  since she returned from Val Royeaux, nor had she added it to the library collection. This was partially out of guilt from Cole's reaction to her 'things' and partially from embarrassment that she had taken the book from the White Circle repository on the sly. But she could not bring herself to return it. So it lay on the mantelpiece in her room, under Avery's singed journal, the books now a small shrine to the Gallows mages she had lost.

She opened her door, gave Dagger a quick pat, and pulled  _Fifteen Dreams_  off the mantel, and opened it. She gasped and threw the book to the ground. The pages of this book, too, had been stained black.

"You son of a bitch!" she screamed. Dagger yelped and scrambled under the bed. "Who the fuck are you to come into my room?"

She kicked the book hard enough that it bounced off the wall. A small, folded piece of paper fluttered from its pages. Breathing ragged from rage, Sinead picked up and unfolded the paper. Recognizing Solas's neat script, her first instinct was to toss the note into the smoldering coals of her fire. But her curiosity overcame her anger just enough that she grudgingly read it.

_I am sorry. I know it seems an insincere sentiment, but I assure you, I had no desire to ruin such a wealth of knowledge. I promise that in time you will understand._

_I ask no forgiveness, but offer an apology – there is a dreamer who goes by the name of Eluvio Literan whom I have encountered in the Fade. He makes his current home in Antiva City._

_Do with this knowledge what you wish. It has been a pleasure knowing you._

Sinead sank to the floor and placed the note in her lap, stunned. Dagger nudged at her hand, and she patted him absently, unsure of what to think or do. Her anger was gone, replaced by a whirlwind of questions.

 _He can't be implying what I think he's implying,_  she thought.  _Eluvio is just some dreamer, some Tevinter dreamer. He's trying to misdirect me, make me uninterested in what he's hiding. Eluvio can't possibly be Eluard._

But she could not take her eyes off the name. Eluvio Literan of Antiva City.


	29. Love

The party was in full swing. Nobles and servants, soldiers and civilians, former Templars and mages, all celebrated the end of Corypheus's mad grasp at power. The music was loud, the drinks strong, the food stacked high on the long tables.

Sinead stood with the library staff, trying her best to rejoice with the rest of the attendees. She was happy, of course. Grateful. In awe of the Inquisitor and what she achieved. Thedas had not been so peaceful, so without immediate threat since before the Blight. She knew it was more than just Corypheus's downfall that the people celebrated – it was the feeling of hope in a future without war or strife that could tear apart nations. So of course she was happy. She must be happy.

Except…

When the archivists finished their assessment of the damage Solas did to the library, it was astounding. Every book that mentioned the elven culture beyond Tevinter slavery, Andraste's uprising and life in an alienage was either missing or blackened. Many of the titles could be replaced, but not without expense and patience. Others were gone forever, rare books long out of print or singular works found in ancient libraries.

But that was something she could focus on another day. Tonight there was wine and song and happy discussions.

Except…

The Inquisitor witnessed Solas's last moments with the Inquisition, and claimed he said something cryptic about "whatever will happen." When she was told about Solas's ruin of the books, she pulled Cole aside and gently but firmly demanded he tell all he knew of Solas. But Cole had nothing to say – there was no memory of Solas's thoughts, just a memory of the man. This confused Cole greatly – he knew that at some point he knew, but now the knowing was gone, as if taken from him.

 _And who has the power to take away memory?_  Sinead thought.  _Was he lying about not using blood magic? Or is there something I'm missing? I feel it's on the edge of my mind, screaming at me to put the pieces together_.

But that was yet another concern that could wait. She was happy. Of course she was. She smiled weakly at Marcel as he told a long, rather explicit tale of his romancing of an Orlesian lady. Half the apprentices were blushing, the others were tittering.

And then there was the matter with Eluvio Literan. Sinead had told no one of the note – she was reluctant to share such personal information when she still couldn't speak the name of the man who Solas was clearly implying this Eluvio was. But she guiltily admitted to herself that the information could prove vital. For one thing, it hinted that Solas was capable of directly seeking people out in the Fade – another skill in the realm of blood magic. Perhaps Morrigan could say if the man was lying or not about tapping into blood –

She shook her head. Happy. She was  _happy_ , and she was going to  _enjoy_  herself.

" – and as I waved to my beloved, knowing that I would never see her again, the lady held up my boot and said 'but we will always have the Great Joust, my dear!" Marcel held his hand over his head, mimicking his lady love.

Sister Guerrin guffawed loudly. "I haven't been this scandalized since – "

" – since you last played Wicked Grace in the tavern?" Marcel said slyly.

"Oh, stop, you," the sister said, tapping the man's shoulder. "Lady Archivist, have you ever heard anything so blue in your life?"

"Hm? Oh. Uh, no! Ahahaha. With the boots." Sinead gave Marcel a wide smile.

Marcel and the sister shared a look. Marcel cleared his throat and linked arms with Sinead. "I'm sure our company is of course diverting, but Ma Dame de Lotus Noir is not made for standing in corners with the rest of the academics. No, she must be promenaded about the room so that lesser beings know their place."

"Marcel, your flattery grows more elaborate by the day. And I don't think I have the shoes for a promenade," Sinead said, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

"Come on, girl, the world's been pulled from the brink and you look like a bunch of orphans were sold off to slavery in front of you," Guerrin said. She gave Sinead a gentle push. "For Maker's sake, go promenade with the man."

"Well, when you put it like that," Sinead said sardonically. "All right, Marcel, let's take a walk."

Marcel chattered as they drifted around the crowded great hall, gossiping about the nobles they passed. From time to time he pulled her toward a group of Orlesians, introducing her with great ceremony. Some she recognized from her time in Val Royeaux. All called her by Marcel's moniker for her – a name she was unlikely to ever shake.

The musicians struck up a tune, and the guests filtered to the dais for dancing.

"Come dance with me, my lady!" Marcel said excitedly. "I have not danced in ages!"

"I'll be a terrible partner," Sinead said, pulling away. "Please, go on and find someone more suitable."

She motioned to a young noblewoman waggling her fan at him.

"I am not promenading with her, fine woman that she is," Marcel said stoutly. "You  _must_  dance, my lady."

"Leave her be, Marcel. If she's going to dance with anyone, it'll be me." Dorian offered his hand to Sinead.

"Yes, go on with Master Pavus," Marcel said excitedly. "Of you go!"

"Honestly," Sinead muttered. She took Dorian's hand, and he promptly twirled her about, then walked her away from Marcel, who was busy flirting with the woman with the fan.

"Thank you for the rescue," she said gratefully. "I think he and the sister are trying to cheer me up. It's both incredibly kind and incredibly dreadful."

"Well, people aren't always sure of how to act around those in mourning," Dorian said, maneuvering her through the crowd. "And yes, I call it mourning. If my personal library had been decimated in such a gruesome manner, I believe I'd wear a sack cloth and cover myself in ash."

"A sack cloth and ash?"

"All right, a pair of old leather trousers and a plain grey tunic. It's practically the same thing."

She laughed. "Woe be the day when you aren't shimmering, Master Pavus."

"Sinead!" Dagna staggered up to her and took her by her dead arm. "I'm so glad I found you! I need you for a demonstration." Dagna dragged her towards the end of one of the tables. Dorian saluted her as she stumbled off.

The end of the table was populated by The Iron Bull and his chargers. Dagna positioned her next to Bull's chair.

"Okay, so I got the idea from Sinead here," Dagna said, waggling Sinead's good arm. "Or, I got it from her arm, I guess. Or, the one armedness, though I guess she actually has two arms, just one's kind of wonky –"

"What is this about, Dagna?" Sinead asked, exasperated and a little embarrassed to be on display for the Chargers.

"A brand new staff!" The excitement in Dagna's voice was palpable. "Or, not really a staff. Like, a bracer, but not armor. A weapon. An ARM STAFF! Can you imagine it? Click it on, and get the same benefits of a staff without all that clunky weight and length. Apostates could walk around without fear!" Dagna pointed at the Charger elf.

"I'm not a mage!" she said irritably.

"No, this is a cool idea," Bull said, stroking his chin. "How exactly would it work?"

Dagna brightened while Krem groaned. "Did you have to ask her boss?" he asked wearily.

"I suppose my demonstration is finished, then?" Sinead sidled away as Dagna started in on a long explanation on the mechanics of making a specialized staff. Krem mouthed the words 'help me' at Sinead, but Sinead simply smiled and backed up into the crowd. She turned and found herself at the head of the other long table, where Varric sat with a mug of ale. Cole sat on the table, listening to Varric speak.

"I'd say chartreuse," he said. "But that sounds kind of pretentious. Bright green, I guess."

"What's this about?" Sinead leaned into the conversation.

"Cole wants to know the color of certain flavors." Sinead raised a brow and Varric shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"What's chartreuse, then?"

"Apples," Cole prompted. "Crisp, juicy apples. Mealy apples are orange." He looked at Sinead from under the brim of his hat – gladly returned to him the moment he appeared at the gates of Skyhold, though she only had that moment to greet him before he was mobbed, along with the rest of the Inquisition's inner circle, by cheering Skyhold occupants and soldiers. "If I think of the tastes as colors first, maybe food will be easier to eat," he explained.

"You  _want_  to eat?" Sinead grinned. "That's new.

Varric raised his mug. "So you're finally embracing humanity?"

"I don't know. It's…getting harder to ignore."

"Well, baby steps, kid." Varric winked at Sinead. "And how's Dusty now that the world's been set right?"

"Better than yesterday," she said. "Thanks entirely to the Inner Circle. You saved the bloody world, you know."

"Nah, not me. That was all the Inquisitor's work. Bianca and I just showed up for the party."

"You aren't better at all," Cole said to Sinead, confused. "The books are ruined, the questions are unanswered, the master's unfound – "

"Come on, kid, she's clearly trying. Let her let it go for an evening."

"…Sorry."

"That's all right," Sinead said with a toothy smile. "I am having fun, honest."

Cole gave her a look and glanced at Varric, who shook his head slightly. "…good," he said, as if the word tasted bad in his mouth.  _Probably like maroon_ , she thought.

"Excuse me, Lady Archivist." She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to find Cullen at her back. "May I have a word?"

"Hey Curly, you gonna sit with the rest of us and have a drink with your friends, or are you still sore about Wicked Grace?"

A flash of embarrassment passed over Cullen that made Sinead wonder. "All in good time. But I've been meaning to catch the lady's attention this evening. If you would come with me?"

"Of course, Commander." She was bemused and nervous. Her last few interactions with Cullen had been no more than short, stiff greetings. She looked at Varric, who shrugged, and Cole, whose face was imperceptible. "I'll come back," she said.

She followed Cullen through the crowd, to a quiet corner.

"I had a chance to see the damage to the library this morning," he said. "I understand that it was quite a collection. I remember the care you took with the books in the Kirkwall library. There was that time that you hounded Templar recruit Loran for weeks when he returned a book dog-eared and water-stained. Wouldn't stop pestering him for the silver to replace it. He came to me, completely flustered. 'Sir, I haven't the silver, and the looks she gives me, I'm sure she'll burn me alive!'" He chuckled, then cleared his throat. "Well. This must have upset you greatly."

She narrowed her eyes. "You took me clear across the great hall to sympathize with me about the library? And to remind me that Loran still owes the Circle twenty-five silver, the cheap git."

"Well…no, not just that." He lowered his voice. "I want to apologize."

"I…what?"

"Apologize. For my behavior these last two weeks. I thought the party would be the best place to do it, so that we could shake hands and wander away from each other, allowing us both to avoid awkwardness."

"Why are you apologizing?" she hissed.

"Because I've been an ass," he replied matter of factly. "Leliana and Josephine were right – you risked much coming forward, and did so for no other reason than to help the Inquisition. And you exhibited a level of control in your spell casting that was commendable. And you were right as well – I've known you too long to have reacted the way I did initially."

"You can't possibly be saying that you approve…"

"Approve? Absolutely not," he said firmly. "It's a dangerous practice that has too many variables that could go wrong and create a terrifying situation. And would I be wrong if I guessed that it's what took your arm?"

She hesitated a moment. "…I got a bit overzealous when protecting Cole…"

"I see." He straightened a wrinkle in her sling.

"It was a mistake that nearly cost me my life," she said, voice low. "I would not let it happen again."

"That's not exactly heartening." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "But it still stuns me. A 'mistake' in that practice that didn't lead to an abomination is unheard of."

"Only if a person is using it specifically to gather power for himself," she said with scorn. "Or the idiots who think they can make deals with demons. Or the fools who think they need a sledgehammer to push in a tack, and then are surprised when they punch a hole in the wall. And when the wall punches them back."

He frowned. "You almost make it sound like a legitimate practice. 'With no malice, strong mind and heart, it is to not be turned on the innocents.' Who was the teacher who set down these guidelines for you?"

She tsked. "I can't…"

"Say the name, I know. Your cursed tongue."

She brightened. "But Cole can! And I even – " she stopped. "Nevermind."

"My lady…" he said warningly.

"…Solas left a message for me in one of the damaged books," she said reluctantly. "He gave me the name of a Dreamer. I'm…not certain, but it could be the true name of my old master."

Cullen looked at her thoughtfully. "Interesting. Something Leliana would find very compelling, I think. And now you want him found?"

"I don't know if we can…"

"We're the Inquisition," he said with a raised brow. "We just defeated one of the ancient Tevinter magisters who blackened the golden city. What can't we do? But we can discuss that later." He stretched out a hand. "Shall we be on good terms again, Lady Archivist?"

She smiled warmly and took his hand, shaking it vigorously. "The best, Commander."

He smiled back, releasing his hand, then placing it on her shoulder. "Go back to the party, Sinead. You deserve a bit of happiness."

He nodded and walked back into the crowd, leaving her with a light heart and a wide smile. She rejoined the celebration, this time truly determined to let go of her worries, at least for the night.

* * *

She drank. She ate. She talked and laughed and whooped. She even danced a few times, Dorian and Marcel both insisting on a turn on the floor. It was late and she was more than a little tipsy when she thought to look for Cole and make him dance, his nervousness be damned. But she could not find him, and Varric merely shrugged and said "the kid ran off. Said he had something to do."

"Then I will have to find him," she declared. "He needs to learn to face his fears!"

"His fears of…dancing."

"Quite right!"

She marched out of the great hall into the garden. Immediately she felt she made a mistake – the garden was almost exclusively populated by couples canoodling in the dark. She walked quickly past nuzzling lovers, blushing heavily, and ran up the stairs. The battlements were quiet, aside from the occasional forlorn guard waiting for their shift change and their turn at the revelry.

She realized then that she was not quite sure where she was going. The cold night air sobered her up a bit, and she felt silly. She made a run for her room, took her cloak of its hook and flipped it awkwardly over her shoulders, using her teeth to help her lone hand tie it on. Then she walked the battlements, pondering where she should look first for Cole.

She headed first towards the Herald's Rest's attic, but thought better of it – it was sure to be packed, and there was no reason for Cole to be there if he was running his helpful errands. The kitchens or the basements were the most likely locations. But instead of heading back down the stairs, she walked toward the tower – now a Circle tower, at the Inquisitor's request.

 _Perhaps I need the air_ , she thought as she walked through the door. The tower was dark, the mages still celebrating with the rest of Skyhold. She ascended the stairs quickly, then stopped at the ladder. That wretched ladder.

"All the power at my fingertips, and I can't simply fly the last few feet," she muttered. She once tried to fling herself through the open trap door, but all that resulted in was a bruised body and many curious mages running in response to the clatter to find the Lady Archivist laying with her face against the wall and the wind knocked out of her.

Instead she grabbed hold of the back of the ladder and climbed up the front, alternating between holding herself up with her feet and pulling her way up. Finally, after a brief struggle at the top rungs, she cleared the door and carefully picked herself up and brushed herself off.

The noise of the revelers was a low din at this height, and the lights of Skyhold were not enough to dull the stars. Satina and Luna were high in the sky, one but a sliver, the other waxing gibbous. She blew on her fingers and pulled her cloak tighter around her, the chill of the air biting into her cheeks. She stared at the thin blue scar hanging in the east against the black of night, and suddenly was struck by the vastness of the heavens. The acres of land she had never seen, though she certainly traveled more than most women of her background. And though its walls were mighty, its lights bright, its people loudly proclaiming their joy for a day without war, she felt how small Skyhold was in the scheme of things. She wondered at the many stories within its walls that were dwarfed by the thousands in the surrounding areas that were dwarfed again by the millions across the world – possibly even in lands unknown. And at that moment she felt both very unimportant and limitless.

"Every person's story is important. People forget. Some never know."

She turned from the stars to find Cole standing by the ladder. She laughed. He was wearing the shirt, green doublet and trousers that he was given in Val Royeaux, though he left behind the jaunty caps in favor of his own wide-brimmed hat.

He was also shivering, his hair dripping water on his shoulders.

She moved to him and removed the hat. "You're hair's sopping wet! Why on earth – you'll get a cold like this. Well – maybe not a cold, can you even get things like colds? Nevertheless, you must be uncomfortable."

"I am," he said, shaking. "But I had to wash."

"Tonight? During a party? After you've already been seen at said party in your regular leathers?" She handed him the edge of her cloak. "Go on, then."

"I have to get it right," he said as explanation as he dried his head with the cloak.

"You have to get what right?"

"It's not time for you to know yet."

"Ah, how enigmatic."

He dropped the cloak. His hair fluffed up in the wind, a bright white halo. Reluctantly she placed his hat back on his head, knocking up the brim so that she could see his eyes.

"That's better."

She withdrew her hand and began to hide it in the cloak, but he took it and turned it palm up, cradling it in his hand.

"I need to return these." He pulled her hairpins from his belt and placed them in her hand, then covered her hand with his own.

She looked up at him, looked into his gray, searching eyes, and every feeling she had for him was sharpened. She gave him a weak smile. "I knew they would keep you safe."

"I love you, Sinead."

He said it as if it was a known fact, a truth that existed without dispute. Her whole body burned, then went numb. She felt as if the floor had fallen out from underneath her and she was floating in midair. She laughed awkwardly.

"You don't."

"I do."

The laughter stopped.

"You can't."

"I do."

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it firmly.

"You mustn't!"

"But I do."

She stomped her foot, her chin wobbling, tears infuriatingly close to falling.

"I have tried so hard," she said angrily. "Do you know how hard I've tried? Of course you know – months of avoiding you, and for what? To learn that it was for naught? That you'd see it all in my mind and you'd try to  _help_  me in the end?"

"I'm not trying to help," he said calmly. He curled her fingers around her pins and let her go. She shakily shoved her pins into her sash as he spoke. "Or I am, but not how you think. I do love you." He pulled his hat down a bit. "It was not always so – when my mind was a tumble of thoughts and feelings and wonder and purpose, when I wasn't sure which me I wanted to be. But then my mind settled, and the thoughts were clear and the feelings were steady and sure, and there you were, always with your hand held out to help. You, when the blackness beat down, only borne back by good memories and constant curiosity. I…I couldn't help it."

She groaned softly, pressing her back into the tower wall and her hand against her mouth.

"At first, I thought like you," he continued. "Too much, too real, not right, not ready. But it wasn't helping. And it didn't stop – all the want and desire and hope and compassion and comfort and anger and jealousy and trust and pain and joy – it was always there, always growing, even when I said nothing. And I felt it in you, too, even when you said nothing. Even when you tried to stay away."

"I didn't mean to," she said weakly, her words muffled by her hand. "I really didn't. I tried so hard!"

"I know. Please stop." He stepped toward her carefully. "I don't care if it's too much or too real. I miss your voice and your hands and your thoughts and your care and your…your…"

"Please don't say my hair," she said, a bit frenzied.

He opened his mouth, then gave her a small smile. "No. It  _is_  nice hair, though."

He took another step, then another, and carefully took her hand from her mouth and once again pressed it between his.

"You can say it out loud if you like," he said softly. "You can make it real."

"And what then," she said. Her panic threatened to rise, but she held it at bay with her frustration. "Will we court? Will we  _woo_? I don't think I'm capable of that, or of…of…" she blushed. "Maybe at one time, but – he was in my  _head_ , Cole. He was in my head and every thought and emotion and physical desire was his, and I…I killed him to make it stop – "

She shuddered. She had never spoken of it aloud, the horror of having her whole being under another's control, the power of taking the life that tried to take her mind. Or the mistrust in herself and others that lingered for years, even when she was long healed of the immediate revulsion.

"I know," he said simply. "But I'm not in your mind, making you think the things I want from you, and never will be. I just hear who you are."

"And I don't know what we'll do, if you make it real." He shrugged. "Courting is…odd. Taking walks in the garden and whispering secrets and being angry when someone else says they like the symmetry of the face that you also like. How is that better than talking about griffons and Wardens and keepers and seekers and thaigs on sand and those across the sea and the reasons that people do the things they must?"

He paused for a moment. "And there are things that are too…real..."

"Oh." Her blush deepened. " _Oh_."

He let her hand go and folded the ends of her cloak together.

"You can make it real, if you want to. Or stay silent and let it stay in your head." He cocked his head. "I think…I think I'll love you either way. Isn't that strange? I wonder why it works that way."

She closed her eyes. Her mind was reeling. Everything felt out of sorts, out of her hands. But when had anything ever been in her hands? From the moment she burned her toast when she was seven she was moving, or learning, or running, or lying low, or working on things that were ultimately hidden or ruined. The only thing she could do from time to time was make a choice, and then run with the consequences without stopping or stumbling.

Sinead made a decision.

"I love you too." The words wavered a bit, which she found unacceptable. "I love you, too, Cole," she said firmly, staring him in the eyes. "Damn it all, I do. I love your compassion and wonder and searching and helping and trying to be the best you you can be. I love the questions you ask and the hope you bring and the stories you tell about the people you feel. I love all of you, and I can't help it, either. And I'm tired of trying not to."

He gave her a slow, wide smile, a smile that brightened his features and lit his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hand and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek, ran his thumb over the edge of her jaw. She sucked in a breath. Her heart flipped.  _Maker, is he going to kiss me_?

"Can I?"

"Can you?" she said shakily. "Isn't it too real?"

"I don't know. But I can try."

He tipped her chin up, leaned in unhurriedly, and gently kissed her. His lips were sure, but soft, yielding, unforceful. She followed their movement with her own, hesitant at first, but quickly became more certain, lifting her hand to barely graze his arm with her fingertips as a sweet ache filled her chest. It was like a deep longing, a thirst she did not know she had, was finally being slaked.

He began to tip back. She pulled away as he fell, and pushed on his chest, quickly swinging him around so that his back hit the wall. He slid to the floor, his face pale in the moonlight. Sinead kneeled beside him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I think. Maybe it  _is_  still too real," he said, his voice creaking. "But it was worth trying."

She laughed and sat next to him, leaning her head against his shoulder and looking up at the stars. A thin streak of light zipped by as one of the stars fell to earth, leaving its brethren behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who read and left comments! I hope you had as much fun reading as I've had writing :)


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